Life's Greatest Purpose
by ChelsieSouloftheAbbey
Summary: Chelsie songfic that brings Carson and Hughes together during the Great War. Definitely AU with canon strewn throughout. Rated M for eventual scenes of violence, war, and … well. Let's just see what happens, shall we? Stars most downstairs crew at some point as well as some of the upstairs folks.
1. Prologue

_**Once you ruled my mind**_

 _ **I thought you'd always be there**_

 _ **And I'll always hold onto your face**_

 _ **But everything changes in time**_

 _ **And the answers are not always fair**_

 _ **And I hope you've gone to a better place ...**_

 _ **"Cordell," The Cranberries***_

* * *

 **Prologue**

It's just gone past four in the afternoon, and Downton's housekeeper plops onto her chair with a loud sigh, the busy nature of the events both upstairs and down this week nearly overwhelming her. Her feet ache, and as she slips one shoe off and absentmindedly rubs the bottom of that foot against the toe of the other, massaging away a sore spot, she takes a deep, slow breath and lets it out again. She needs to stop for just a minute, sort her mind's contents in order to move through the rest of her day more efficiently. It's a feeling she often experienced during the war, but of course then _everything_ had been harried, frenetic, and fraught with its own exhaustion … although that was more fear-driven to be sure.

She had hoped to leave that feeling of having to work double-fast behind months ago. And while those endless weeks do in many ways seem so far away now, she knows that her present tiredness is more than valid. Things at Downton are speeding up instead of slowing down as one would have expected following the war, and goodness knows she's not getting any younger.

Her sitting room door creaks open, and she smiles faintly as Beryl Patmore bustles in with a tea tray.

"Thought you might need this," the redheaded woman says, and Elsie notes that her voice is softer, kinder lately. Or maybe that's from age, too, and shared experiences between them, knowledge of how post-war life is and of all the things it can bring.

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore," Elsie says, waving her hand at the empty chair by her desk when she notes there are two cups and saucers on the tray. She thinks perhaps her friend needs someone to sit with as well, five minutes of peace in a house that's been providing none.

Elsie slips her shoe back on, pushing her heel into place, and her head tilts a bit when she identifies Mrs. Patmore as her 'friend' in her mind.

She wonders when _that_ happened. There's no question about it, though.

"What's that, then?"

Beryl has noticed something, but she sees the housekeeper shake it away with a toss of her head and a soft laugh.

"Oh, don't mind me, Mrs. Patmore," she chuckles, reaching for the proffered cup. She takes a tentative sip, relishing the nearly-scalding heat of the liquid and its restorative properties. "Ahh, this is _exactly_ what I needed. How did you know?"

"A good cuppa solves most of life's problems, doesn't it?" the cook replies, taking her own seat. "Or at least, the small ones …"

"A great many of the _big_ ones are likely solved over the sharing of it as well," Elsie observes. "How's the menu coming along for the wedding?"

She doesn't miss the cook's roll of the eyes.

"Oh, it's fine," Beryl sighs. "Lord knows Miss Swire isn't terribly difficult. I think the challenge is more in getting her to _request_ something, to put her foot down and be a bit demanding. And Mr. Crawley is no help in that regard. He wants her to figure it all out on her own, to allow her to get used to it all, I suppose."

"Well, he's not wrong in his thinking there," Elsie answers. "She's in for some changes, make no mistake. Running a big house like this one day …" Settling back into her seat a bit, she sips the tea again and allows her mind to wander a bit. "Miss Swire," she adds eventually. "Who'd have thought?"

"Who, indeed?" Beryl clicks her tongue softly. "Do you think she has any idea how hard it'll really be, being his wife?"

Elsie looks at her almost sharply. "How do you mean?"

The cook blushes. "Oh, you know … It's not what was _meant_ to happen, now, is it? And now, with poor Mr. Crawley's condition, I mean. After all his Lordship went through with that awful entail business ..."

"That's not our concern, really. None of it." Elsie rests the cup and saucer on her desk and brushes at her skirt, fiddling with a stray piece of lint that's suddenly annoying her. "And they _do_ love one another," she adds quietly.

"Oh, I know," Beryl replies. "Anyone with half a brain can see that. I hope it's enough, though. Sometimes love isn't. Not in their world, anyhow."

Elsie's eyes are far away, staring down at the swirling fabric of her skirts … swirls that are becoming a sea of faces and places and voices … kind eyes, soft and gentle with the offer of a different life, suddenly sad … a small child who'd never be hers, blonde hair and a toothy smile … a sister's letter, opened in a rush as the war raged around them all … a deeper voice, kinder eyes, a brush of fingers across her cheek ...

"Nor ours," she whispers.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

Elsie inhales sharply, startled from her reverie. "Sorry," she mumbles. "Away with the fairies, I suppose."

Beryl, in an unusual turn of events, remains completely silent.

The knock at the door surprises them both, although Elsie is used to its muffled sound after all these years, and she and the cook both rise as Downton's butler enters the room.

"Mr. Barrow. What can I do for you?" Elsie asks.

"Might I have a word, Mrs. Hughes?" he asks, the tone of his voice indicating a hint of unusual concern. "It's rather important."

Elsie turns to Beryl, but the woman already has the tray in hand.

"High time I got back to work," she mumbles, nodding at the butler before heading out.

Thomas closes the door behind her then turns to face his housekeeper, who is now very grateful, indeed, for the fortification brought by the tea.

"What is it?" she asks tentatively. "Is something amiss upstairs?"

"No," Thomas replies. "Not upstairs." A pause. "I think you should sit down, Mrs. Hughes."

Elsie plops back into her chair without question. She sees more in his expression now than just concern, but she isn't sure what all of the feelings he's hiding are. He's a tricky one to read, sometimes, and she's not quite got the knack of it yet. But she knows whatever it is that he's about to drop in her lap is probably going to cause no amount of trouble in the house.

She sighs.

"Well, then," she tells him as he sits across from her. "Best get it out, Mr. Barrow, so that I can get on with my day."

* * *

 _tbc_

 **A/N: This story has given me nothing but trouble in its coming together, and I've not gotten the entire thing written yet at all. So updates will be sporadic after the next chapter, but please be patient, and do let me know what you think. I'm hoping publishing it will be the incentive my brain needs to actually _write_ the rest of it. I** **'ll play around with the canon timeline a bit (notable right away beginning with Chapter 1), but I hope you won't mind.**

 ***Nod to the genius that was Dolores O'Riordan, although as a songfic, each chapter here will begin with lyrics that inspired its events. x**


	2. The Padre

_**No more for me, the rolling parish,**_

 _ **The city quarter, the village spire,**_

 _ **My flocks are waiting in their dugout,**_

 _ **Their untrained voices, my only choir …**_

" _ **The Padre," Show of Hands**_

 **5 May, 1917**

 _Ink._

Charles frowns as he looks at the tips of his thumb and fingers, annoyed that despite the meticulous care he's taking, the ink from his prayer book keeps transferring to his skin. It's nearly impossible to hold the small volume in his great hands and only grasp the edges of each page. He sighs, frustrated.

His attention is drawn to a movement outside of his tent. Quickly mumbling a few final words of worship, he closes the book upon its worn bookmark and sets it back into his rucksack, taking care to close the pouch securely before rising, stretching, and pushing the tent flap fully open.

The movement he'd seen is quickly explained; the dog, returned, now seated before the tent, tail wagging.

"Well, what have we here?" Charles asks him softly, scratching the mutt behind the ears. After retrieving the slips of paper from the small metal tube affixed to the dog's collar, Charles brings him into the tent to reward him with a small piece of the crust from yesterday's bread. It's not much, but it's what the man has to offer, and the dog is grateful for it.

Charles quickly examines his companion for injury but finds nothing. It's a dangerous job that the dogs are performing, carrying messages to and fro, and it isn't unusual for them to return with scratches from barbed wire or even an occasional cut (or worse) from a gun's shot. But _this_ dog's main occupation is as mail courier, not one of those whose specialty is darting in and out of battles between officers. The dog appears fit as a fiddle, and after another few pats on the head, Charles heads back outside and sends him off, watching as the dog heads to the canteen where he knows there will be water and a cool, shaded area to rest.

Charles digs in his pocket for a handkerchief, with which he pats his damp brow before sitting in the chair outside his door. He's afforded a private tent due to his position and appreciates the solitude of it. But today the sun is rather bright, and he craves the feel of a gentle breeze on his face.

He folds the handkerchief once again and puts it away; then, with a small bit of dread in his heart, he unrolls the messages at last, always wary of what information they may bring. After setting the first two aside in order to deliver them to Major Clarkson later in the hospital tent, he opens the last note, scans the name at the top to verify that it is, in fact, meant for him, and begins to read.

 _Oh, no …_ He reads the message twice, then a third time. The telegram is brief but informative, and while not unexpected, it produces an unusual sadness in Charles's heart.

 _Sarah Mason. Died 25 April. Buried 29 April, Downton Parish._

He closes the message up again, rolls it around the two for the Major, and tucks the small bundle in his breast pocket. Rising, he ducks back into the tent to retrieve his other prayer book - the thinner, but lately much more used one - and makes his way across the camp to find William.

As he crests the small hill, Charles has to swallow a hard lump in his throat. William is a kind lad, a dedicated soldier, and a great help to all who ask his assistance. He rarely requests anything for himself in return, save for perhaps a kind ear on occasion. And Charles, as chaplain for their camp, is always available to listen.

His steps are slow, and he freely admits that he's taking his time in order to prolong the inevitable. Experience on the front, while brief thus far, has taught Charles Carson a great deal: war is a messy business, both politically and physically, and while his job is to minister to the needs of his men, to provide comfort and absolution and guidance, it is also his job to deliver the worst news possible when it arrives in his hands … and _that_ is perhaps one of his least favorite things to have to do.

Charles rarely has doubt that he's chosen the right path in his life. It had been an arduous journey in many ways, starting with an early career as footman (and then under-butler) to which he can never return, followed by a year treading the boards and a brief (but intense) romance that ended in disaster. The short series of events had left him bereft and in need of guidance; when he fled London following his fiancée's betrayal, he ended up in a small parish outside the city. Long afternoons were spent in the village church, sitting or kneeling in pew after pew, seeking a sign.

The sign eventually came in the form of a hand, extended in friendship; it took Charles a moment to recognize its owner as Edmund - now the Reverend Martin - an old acquaintance from his childhood. The familiar face and voice encouraged Charles to stay, offered a chance for him to be giving of his time and skill, and Charles finally found in his rededication of himself to God all of the things he'd been missing in his life up to that point: consistency, rules, stability … and, in the most tucked-away parts of his mind and heart, an immense comfort for his sorrow and unease.

After years of near solitude, of prayer, reflection, and hard work that varied from polishing the church's silver Communion service to assisting in the patching of a hole in the ceiling, Charles made the decision to follow the path to deaconship and, eventually, the priesthood … and leave the rest of his old life behind for good.

And now here he stands: newly ordained, whisked away by war to a position in the trenches instead of the pulpit, facing the entrance of Private Mason's tent. He wonders at times if these experiences are meant to feel like challenges, but there's no time to ponder that now.

To his credit, William weeps openly at the news that Charles brings. Such raw emotions used to make the older man uncomfortable, truth be told. But war will do things to all men, affecting them in ways no one uninvolved can truly understand, and an appreciation for all human life - and what it costs to keep it - is perhaps Charles's greatest takeaway.

He clasps William's hands as they sit facing one another. They pray together, the book resting on the ground by Charles's feet, unrequired, the words so much a part of his daily life here on the front that he's not sure why he brought it along in the first place. Perhaps it was simply for the comfort of knowing more words would be there should he need them.

"She was a good woman, Padre," William mumbles, wiping at his eyes once more. "And now I'm all alone, save for my Dad."

"You should write to him," Charles replies. "He'll appreciate hearing from you and knowing you're well."

"I got a letter two weeks ago from him. He didn't mention … well, he said he's proud of me."

Charles smiles softly. "He will be happy to have you home once we're out of all of this."

William looks wistfully out at the land surrounding them - or what he can see of it through the door of the tent he shares with Lieutenant Crawley.

"And where will _you_ go then? Does parish ministry await?"

Charles sighs. His intended post has been filled; he knows this much from Edmund.

"I hope so, yes," he replies after a moment.

William chuckles. "You _could_ always go back into service, I suppose. I'm guessing you were good at it."

"I was, rather," Charles confides, his eyebrow raised in amusement. He claps his hands on his knees and stretches his back. "But that life was a long time ago, and I can't go back to it … for many reasons."

William fingers the seam of his uniform and smiles at his companion. "I stitched that hole, Padre. Do you see … here?"

Charles examines the sleeve and nods approvingly. "So you did. It's always important to present your best self, I think. Whatever your livery may be."

William looks him in the eyes and raises his own, much less impressive eyebrows. "Perhaps that life isn't quite as far from your mind as you think," he teases.

Charles merely gives a brief nod, then places the telegram in William's hands.

"Write to your father," he repeats gently, and he takes his leave.

The sun is beginning to set, and it's a strange juxtaposition over the land: the beautiful orange and red tones of the sunset shining on the pitted earth of the dugout, the dirt-stained walls of the tents, and the backs of the soldiers who are planning and training in the field. Charles sighs as he goes in search of the Major, knowing he'll likely find him in the hospital tent. Yesterday's battle produced a great many injuries, and despite new nursing staff having been promised, Charles knows it'll likely be weeks before they arrive.

He's wrong, however - a fact that is strikingly evident as soon as he steps into the infirmary.

Nurses are bustling _everywhere,_ and he's stopped short by the sight of one of them as she runs before him.

"Carson!" She stops and places a kiss to his cheek. "Papa told me to look for you here, but you've saved me the effort!"

"Milady," he mumbles, nodding to her, and her laughter is light and airy.

"Just Nurse Crawley now, you know," she tells him. Her eyes drop to the bundle of blankets in her arms.

"Go," he tells her. "I'll be around, and we can talk later if you like."

She nods and hurries off, and Charles feels his heart fill as he watches her go: Sybil Crawley, youngest daughter of Robert, whose late father had been Charles's first employer. He shakes his head at Lady Sybil's words from before, at the suggestion that he'd call her anything but what her position and title demand - the daughter of the current Earl of Grantham isn't merely a nurse in Charles's mind, regardless of what she may think.

He remembers the day Robert Crawley had wed his young bride from America, and it seemed that each time Charles returned to the area to visit the local parish, he would hear news of a new daughter's birth. He and Lord Grantham had maintained a mutual respect for one another throughout the years despite Charles's original, abrupt departure from the household, and Charles had the opportunity to get to know the man's wife and daughters a bit during the months the family would spend in London for the Season, where Charles ended up serving in a small church.

But to see Lady Sybil here, in the hellish environment of war, jars him in a way he can't explain.

"Excuse me. Are you alright?"

The voice brings him back to the present, and he turns to see where it had come from … and, suddenly, all of his breath leaves his lungs at the sight of the woman before him. As if her voice hadn't been startling enough, the dark hue of her hair - with a few wisps escaping its tight, plaited bun - and the deep blue of her eyes have him completely done for.

"Sir?" She glances at his shirt, searching for a last name on the pocket, but finds nothing.

"Fine. I'm fine," he manages, shaking his head a bit to clear it. "Thank you."

She nods, then hurries off to attend a soldier lying on the nearest cot.

Charles can't help but follow her with his own eyes, which anyone looking at him would recognize as being alight with wonder. He watches as she lifts the hand of the injured man and speaks kind words to him, words Charles cannot hear but which are clearly reflected in the smile the man gives upon hearing them. She dips a clean cloth into some water, wrings it out efficiently, and carefully cleans the man's wounds, taking care not to press too hard. Charles watches as she rinses the towel once, then twice, before carefully extracting something he cannot identify from the man's bicep. And he continues to observe her as she cleans the wound once more with one hand while allowing the soldier to squeeze her other one against the pain, before she wraps his arm in clean gauze.

Major Clarkson's sudden appearance at his side surprises him, pulling him out of his daze.

"She's a marvel," the Major says approvingly. "New arrival from Downton; came yesterday with Nurse Crawley."

Charles smiles at his use of Sybil's new title. "She certainly seems knowledgeable," he says, observing how the woman darts in and out of the medical tent, bringing supplies in and other things out, as needed. "Is she a nurse by trade?"

The Major laughs. "Hardly! _Housekeeper,_ if you can believe that."

Charles's eyebrows fly up. "Surely not at the Abbey?"

"But of course. It's how she ended up being sent here when she volunteered as opposed to overseas."

"But Captain Crawley's mother …"

The Major flushes. "Has requested to be elsewhere," he says abruptly. "Now, I'm going to guess that those are for me?" he adds, tapping the papers in the chaplain's hand.

"Forgive me, Major," Charles replies sheepishly, handing the messages over.

"It's alright," the Major responds. "A great deal of distractions today, all around."

Just then, the nurse catches Charles's gaze. She smiles, a small upturn of her lips, and he returns the gesture in kind with a small nod.

"It's Mrs. Hughes," Major Clarkson murmurs in Charles's ear. "Her name, I mean. Refuses to go by 'Nurse,' not that we could force them to call her that anyhow. Too many people here from the big house, or their families - everyone from Downton knows Mrs. Hughes."

"Well," Charles replies quietly, "it appears that I've been gone longer than I thought."

The Major claps him on the back and smirks. "Perhaps so."

 _tbc_

 **A/N: Oh, my goodness. YOU GUYS! Your response to the Prologue was so lovely, and I thank each and every one of you - with a special nod to Suzie, and to the other guest reviewers that I cannot thank in person.  
I hope you'll still be on board from this point forward. Please continue letting me know what you think of the story. This one's not all written ahead of time, but I do hope you'll stick with it. As I said, I've played a bit with the timeline, most notably here with William's mother's death coming when he's enlisted as a soldier.**

 **NB: Messenger dogs - true story. Part of the hold up for writing this story is that I've lost myself down the research rabbit hole. But there have been lots of cool things to find!**

 **PS: Charles isn't dead in the prologue. I know some folks worried that the news Mr. Barrow brought would be some sort of Carson death announcement. I promised I'd never do that again, and I stand by my promise. Once was enough, thanks. We'll revisit that scene ... eventually.**

 **xxx,**

 **CSotA**


	3. The Nurse

_**Then softly she goes**_

 _ **Her shining lips in the shadows**_

 _ **Softly she goes in the dawn …**_

" _ **Softly," Gordon Lightfoot**_

* * *

 _ **10 May, 1917**_

A soft sigh passes Elsie's lips as she wipes her brow. While the day hadn't precisely been hot, the air inside the hospital tent had grown stagnant and humid since the moon had risen and the breeze died down. The stuffiness is getting to her, and she can't wait for the walk back to the small tent she shares with Lady Sybil.

She turns and scans the scene before her: twenty beds, all full; soldiers asleep for the most part, thanks to a recent administration of nighttime medication; tools sterilized, and everything in its place from what she can see; Major Clarkson, chatting in the far corner with another nurse, the Sister who'll be taking the overnight shift.

' _Another' nurse._ Elsie's got to laugh a bit at that. She's not _really_ a nurse, per se, although the soldiers don't care much, not when they're in agony or in need of a clean sheet, a sip of water even. Years of being the midwife's daughter in their small village in Argyll have paid off, she supposes, despite how fervently she'd wished as a lass to escape that particular life. Elsie knows she's done well for herself, going into service when her Da died and then rising to the level of housekeeper just before turning fifty. Her position at Downton is one of great esteem, and her head has never been in the clouds. She realizes that her hard work and dedication have produced a rewarding, simple life, and she's grateful for it.

And she _needs_ it.

When the call for volunteers had come to their little part of England and Lady Sybil wished to answer it, Elsie felt she should offer her services as well. Of course, she realized that pregnant women and infants wouldn't be found on the front, but growing up as her mother's daughter had also given her additional medical experience, albeit unofficial; farm life isn't easy, after all, and accidents often happened. While the first months of the war had proven difficult at the Abbey due to a lack of staff, the parties and fetes had more recently waned, meaning life at Downton had calmed considerably. And so, after a consultation with Mrs. Crawley and also with the doctor-turned-Major, Elsie broached the subject with Lady Grantham. Her employer was surprised, but not disappointed or angry.

" _We must all do our part, Mrs. Hughes. Anna can take on your duties, if you feel she's up to the task."_

" _I believe she is, Milady, particularly with the relatively slow few months coming up on the horizon."_

" _Lady Sybil leaves for training in two weeks. Would that be enough time to prepare? Surely O'Brien can help as needed."_

Major Clarkson ends his conversation with the night nurse, and Elsie smiles as he approaches her.

"Well, Mrs. Hughes. What do you think? How has your first week on the front been treating you?"

"Fine, I think. I must say, Major, the breadth of what we're undertaking in this tent is … well, frankly, a bit overwhelming. I had to assist a man out with a broken leg today, simply because he wasn't bleeding and we needed the bed."

"Yes, and that's perhaps the hardest bit," he replies, the gravity evident in his voice, "making those decisions. Twenty beds aren't nearly enough. I've put in for a secondary tent given that our overall numbers are higher in this regiment, but …"

"This past week seems to have done us in," she says, nodding.

Her eyes wander, landing on the young man in the bed closest to where they're standing.

"And what of him?" she whispers, a movement of her hand identifying the young soldier of which she's speaking. "What's to happen to _him_ when someone in more dire circumstances needs _his_ bed?"

Major Clarkson's eyes fall upon the man, examining the bandage around the small stump where the soldier's arm had needed to be amputated just above the elbow. It's already soaked with blood, and he knows the night nurse will likely need to change it twice before he returns in the morning to check on the patient.

"He's being discharged next week," he replies. "And hopefully his family are able to provide the care and support he needs."

"And if they cannot?" She swallows a lump in her throat; the soldier reminds her so much of her Joe's boy Peter - same blue eyes, same light hair, same ruddy complexion, and approximately the same age that Peter is now. She wonders suddenly if he, too, is fighting somewhere in these vast fields.

"That's not ours to sort for them, Mrs. Hughes," he advises sadly. "The entirety of what we are able to control lies with what happens in this tent."

"And the rest lies with God, I suppose," she says, and he nods.

"Him, too. Speaking of which, I saw you met our resident chaplain the other day."

"Mr. Carson? Well, Reverend, I suppose."

"You'll find no soldiers calling him either of those things here," the Major laughs. "They call him _Padre,_ which doesn't suit the man at all, if you ask me. The nurses settle for Reverend, though, I think."

"Do you know him well? Lady Sybil tells me he used to work for the family. What happened there?"

"I don't really know him, no. I believe he left decades ago, but I wasn't the local physician then."

"Hm." She nibbles on her lip, thoughtful. She's intrigued by this Mr. Carson, she won't deny it. Service to a titled family and service to God are very different things, indeed. She wonders what prompted the switch.

"I don't think it was anything bad," Major Clarkson adds after a moment. "At least, he seems to be on good terms with them all. Just drawn to a different way of life, I suppose."

She turns to look at him. "And it's _all_ a different way of life from _this,_ Major."

His mustache twitches with amusement. "You've got _my_ title down pat, Mrs. Hughes. So tell me something. Why is it still _Lady Sybil_ for you? You and the Padre are the only ones to call her that."

She blushes, which isn't quite the reaction he expected, and begins working at her bottom lip again as she contemplates how to answer. But the doctor is trustworthy, she knows, and would never break her confidence.

"I don't want to forget, Major," she says in a near-whisper. "I'm afraid it'll be easy to get away from our real lives, our real _selves_ , whilst here on the fields. _Your_ title is one of command and respect, and it wouldn't do for me not to use it. Lady Sybil, on the other hand … I need to maintain that connection, I think. Of course, I'd never refer to her as such when conversing with patients or the other nurses. But for myself … well."

"And you're keeping an eye on her," he adds, and she nods slowly. "For … her mother?"

"Yes, I suppose I am. And for myself."

Somewhere in the tent, a moan sounds loudly, and the nurse who's just come on shift hurries to a patient's bedside.

"Major? May I ask _you_ something?"

"Of course," he replies.

"Do you think … Is it wrong of me, in your opinion, to have favorites among them?" she whispers. "To care about them so?"

He knows she doesn't mean the soldiers.

"They're your family," he replies gently. "I don't see anything unusual in your caring for them."

"They're not _my_ family."

He turns to face her and reaches out to pat her hands, which are clenched tightly before her abdomen. "If you say so, Mrs. Hughes."

Elsie watches the Major as he walks away. He's right; she knows he is. But she has her own family, too, and sometimes it's all too much to keep tucked inside of her heart. She's grateful to the Major for his presence and his words, and for his kind and unassuming way. He's very much in charge, yet he's still very much the village doctor in small, quiet times like this. She wonders if, in a different life, they'd have been friends.

A rustling behind her makes her turn swiftly, and her mouth drops as she sees the chaplain walk through the tent's opening.

"Mrs. Hughes," he murmurs, giving her a nod. "Are you on the overnight shift?"

"Oh, heavens no, Mr. Carson. I'm just heading out. Been in since six."

"In the morning? My goodness, that's a long time on your feet," he observes.

"No more than usual," she answers with a smile.

"Ah, yes. Housekeeper at Downton. It's a rather large house to manage."

She bristles. "It is, yes. But we make do."

She watches as his eyes widen and he realises how she's mistaken his words. "I meant no disrespect, Mrs. Hughes. It was just an observation. I'm sure you and the butler do an admirable job." He pauses, then adds more softly, "Lady Sybil speaks very highly of you."

"Does she?" Elsie can't help it; she's a bit surprised.

"She does. And her opinion carries a bit of weight with me, I don't mind saying."

The patient Elsie had heard earlier begins groaning again, and the chaplain's attention is drawn away from her. She's grateful, but hates herself for the gratitude that has stemmed from someone else's discomfort.

"I'll bid you goodnight, Mr. Carson. It appears you've greater things to attend to at the moment."

She takes note of the small prayer book tucked into his jacket pocket and the black bowler clutched in his hand. It nearly makes her laugh, that he'd not simply have left both jacket and hat behind in his tent, knowing as he must that the heat in the tents can be unbearable.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Hughes."

She watches him as he makes his way to the patient's bed, as he pulls a chair alongside it. The man turns to face him, murmuring words she cannot hear. After Mr. Carson places his jacket carefully across the back of his chair and the bowler over the corner, he sits carefully, all attention on the task at hand. The timbre of his voice reaches her ears, and although she cannot make out his words, there's a softness and caring in his voice that wasn't present when he was speaking with her moments ago.

She exits the tent and makes her way back to her own sleeping quarters, thinking that their camp is lucky to have a chaplain who cares such a great deal about each and every soldier present. And she has a feeling that, were she to ask, Mr. Carson could give her the life's story of each and every one of them.

The thought makes her heart a bit lighter, and as she settles into bed after a day she thought would never end, her last conscious thought before nodding off is that she'd like to get to know this Mr. Carson a bit better if at all possible.

 **oOoOoOo**

Hours later, as the sun is nearly creeping up into the morning sky, Charles Carson steps outside his tent, walking around the back and thinking he might catch a bit of sunrise. He's woken much earlier than he either needs or wants to have woken, a fact which makes him decidedly unhappy, but his grumpy countenance vanishes in an instant at the sight before his eyes.

Across the field, near the small pond that has been fashioned from the recently fallen rain, stands Mrs. Hughes. She's singing, and though the soft lilt of her voice barely reaches his ears, he focuses on it, trying to identify the tune. And she already has an audience, he notices belatedly. The messenger dog who'd delivered news of Sarah Mason's death is sitting beside her in rapt attention.

Charles watches as the nurse leans down to the water, and the glint from the early morning sun flashes on the item in her hand: a metal bowl, likely banged up and battered, into which she's scooped cool water that she now sets before the dog, who bends and laps it up gratefully as she caresses its ears, all the while never breaking the rhythm of her song.

It would be a mundane action in virtually any other place and time, and he knows that, were she not there, the dog would simply have drunk from the pool itself. But here, in the middle of all that's going on around them, the scene speaks to his heart in a way he's a bit afraid to put a name to just yet.

One thing is for certain; he thinks he just might find the time to get to know this woman a bit better.

He feels like a voyeur, unable to take his eyes off of her, standing and watching her every move as intently as he did the first day they met. The sound of her voice dies away, and he stands a bit straighter when _she_ stands and stretches, as if they've both realised it's time to start another day.

She turns quickly, too fast for him to disappear, and their eyes meet across the field. He thinks his heart stopped for a moment; whether out of fear or something else, he's not sure.

She raises her hand in a tentative wave, a small gesture but something nevertheless. He grasps onto it like a drowning man grasps a raft, raising his own hand high in return.

He's fairly certain she smiles at him, and he eventually manages to turn around and duck back into his tent to begin his morning prayers.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Hope you all enjoyed meeting Elsie and learning a bit more about her! Please leave a review if you have a moment and let me know what you thought. A special shout-out to the guest reviewers, one of whom in particular who's left lovely and detailed reviews to which I cannot reply directly.**_

 _ **xx,**_

 _ **CSotA**_

 **oOoOoOo**

 **NB: Elsie and Sybil would have been considered VAD, or "Voluntary Aid Detachment," which was a group of civilians trained to assist in medical environments. Because neither were previously certified nurses, their duties would have been limited to assisting qualified nursing staff: cleaning, cooking (oh, the irony ...), laundering, and the like. Training was structured and longer at the beginning of the war, but from about the halfway point forward, training became shorter as more and more volunteers were needed on the fields of war.**  
 **More information about Britain's WWI VAD can be found by visiting the UK Red Cross's website.**


	4. Tea

_**Now they're putting all the pieces back together**_

 _ **Though it isn't quite the way it used to be**_

 _ **Walls are coming down and every day it's getting better**_

 _ **And that means that there's still hope for you and me.**_

 _ **"All the Pieces," Joe Jencks**_

* * *

 _ **15 May, 1917**_

The next time Charles and Elsie spent talking to one another ended in something akin to disaster. It wasn't the injury-related type of disaster that their jobs normally entailed, but the story of it spread like wildfire through the camp nonetheless. The briefest account of the situation, the one that was shared in quiet breaths from soldier to soldier, was of how the Padre had gone to visit a patient, to deliver a message to the man as he lay on the bed in agony, and that Mrs. Hughes had kicked the chaplain out of the hospital tent.

Charles wonders, now, alone in his own tent as he removes his shoes and braces to settle in for the evening, if he had actually been _wrong_ in his dealings with the nurse _._ He's not often wrong; this is no falsehood he leads himself to, but rather an accurate assessment of his normally excellent judgment, his ability to discern in seconds what a situation requires and to handle it with candor and a firm hand.

But it does happen _occasionally._

He picks up the message once again from the small table by his cot, reads it through for the twentieth time, and his heart sinks a little at the words in messy scrawl from the soldier's wife. They've lost their home, she wrote to her husband, without the pay he used to bring in, and men had come to move her and the children out two days prior. She adds that they're safe and loved at her mum's, and he's to write her there instead.

Charles's hand falls down by his leg as the emotion of the sad circumstance affects him. To lose one's house almost as a penalty for serving one's country … he shakes his head at the thought. Surely the soldiers are being taken care of, being given wages that are sent home? It's what should be happening, and to his knowledge it's not normally an issue.*

The letter is folded again and returned to its spot on the table before Charles finishes undressing. He washes, the water cool in the basin, and cleans his teeth. Moments later, clad in pajamas and tucked under the thin blanket, he's fast asleep, but his dreams are haunted by the cries of a small child being hushed by a young mother, her own face tear-stained as she calls out the name of the soldier in the third bed of the camp's medical tent.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

 _ **16 May, 1917**_

It isn't like Elsie not to sleep well, courtesy of yet another job that keeps her on her feet for long hours. In fact, the nursing is even _harsher_ on her body as there's more of a physical toll as well ( _moving patients and moving linens are entirely different burdens_ , she thinks), so sleep shouldn't be a fickle friend here. She'd expected some trouble nodding off the first day she'd arrived, but sleep had come swiftly and kept her in its clutches for a solid six or seven hours every night.

Until last night.

Last night she tossed and turned, punching her pillow out of frustration as the night wore on. She couldn't keep the voices out of her head - the soldier's voice, demanding to know what happened to his family … her own voice, quieting him as she checked his pulse and wiped his brow … and Mr. Carson's voice, which the chaplain was clearly trying to keep at soft tones despite its inherent deep, rumbling.

 _Mr. Carson …_

Like Lady Sybil, she simply couldn't manage to call the man _Padre._ It seemed a word for soldiers to use, and even the nurses scrunched their noses up at it, referring to him as the Reverend instead. But it stuck in her head that the doctor and Lady Sybil both referred to him as _Carson -_ one with a title preceding it, one simply the surname.

She doesn't much care now what she calls him, really, and after a night of no sleep that she attributes directly to the chaplain's obstinance and argumentative, unwavering nature, she feels she has a few _more_ choice titles for him – things decidedly more colorful than _Padre._

Once dressed, she heads out of the tent. Lady Sybil remains fast asleep, and Elsie turns back for a moment, holding the tent flap slightly open as she gazes at the young woman. The peaceful appearance of Sybil's face while she rests is a reminder of the familiar life they've both left behind. Elsie's glad to share a tent with the youngest Crawley, for despite the differences in their position and title, they have a common outlook on most things.

 _And the girl needs a mother figure here,_ Elsie thinks, and she _had_ promised Lady Grantham she'd provide that.

A soft smile graces Elsie's lips as she fastens the tent's flap closed again and heads to the fire pit with a few pieces of dried newsprint and her box of matches. It doesn't take long to get the flames burning steadily, although Elsie knows that come winter it'll be harder to keep everything from the dampness, and that the lack of adequate fire will bring a whole host of other issues to the camp. But now, today, as the sun continues its ascent and she sets the metal pan full of water atop the crudely-fashioned grate over the burning wood, things are as good as they can expect given the circumstance of war.

Scooping tea leaves into the teapot, she hums a tune. It's something familiar that she can't quite remember from childhood and so she's making some of it up as she goes, but it's a soft sound in the quiet of the morning. A gentle breeze flutters her sleeve as she adds the now-boiling water to the pot and swirls it around. She lifts her head and looks out across the camp … and then, with a sigh but a bit of determination, scoops a bit more tea into the pot and adds a bit more water.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

"Do you polish those every morning?"

The familiar Scottish lilt makes him look up from his boots, although he'd heard (and determinedly _ignored_ ) the sound of her approaching footsteps.

"I do." His brow furrows as he notices the small tray she carries. "Is that … tea?"

"It is," Elsie replies, her eyes scanning the area around him. Charles realizes after a moment what she needs, and he slips his boot on hastily, not bothering to tie it, and steps into his own tent to retrieve a second chair, which he unfolds and sets somewhat near his own, indicating for her to sit. It's an added embarrassment to him that he has no table to offer.

 _Who shows up with tea at half six during a war?_ Charles thinks incredulously.

The lack of table doesn't matter, of course, and Elsie smirks as she notices the chaplain tugging at his laces and tying his boot. His sharp movements take her a bit by surprise, each one exact, calculated. She isn't sure _why_ she's surprised; she knows a bit of the type of man he is from what she's gleaned from Lady Sybil and Major Clarkson … but still.

Charles watches out the corner of his eye as she balances the tray on her lap and fills two cups and manages to request a splash of milk and just a small bit of sugar, which she adds with precision exactly as he'd have done himself.

"New schedule, then?" he asks.

"Mm, yes. Eleven to eight, with Lady Sybil, so that I'm not constantly waking her early when I get myself up."

He raises an eyebrow in question, but she doesn't bother trying to explain why she's up five hours early _today._ Instead, she hands him the cup and saucer, and after a split second's hesitation he reaches for them.

"Thank you," he tells her, his voice hesitant. "I must say, Mrs. Hughes, I'd have thought I'd be the last man in this camp you'd bless with tea this morning."

She sips at the tea, thoughtful. "I come bearing tea and an apology, Mr. Carson." Her eyes look up, meeting his, and she notices not for the first time the muted, hazel hues contained within them, a soft detail resting within the imposing, gruff figure of the man. "I shouldn't have scolded you or sent you away yesterday. You meant no harm."

His head tilts as he contemplates her. He expected a great many words to come from her mouth, but an apology didn't count among them.

"I'm not often surprised by people, Mrs. Hughes," he says slowly, "but you are a bit of a mystery to me."

"Am I?" She asks it with a full smile, amusement lighting up her eyes for only him to see.

There are faint noises surrounding them now, light movements as the rest of the camp begins its day, but they won't have company for at least another fifteen minutes, Charles guesses.

"Quite."

They pass the next few minutes in surprisingly comfortable silence, save for the slight clink of the cups against the saucers. A soldier emerges from a tent down the path and raises a hand in greeting, which Charles returns in kind as Elsie watches.

"They all care a great deal about you," she observes. "The men."

"Well, I don't know about _that_. I provide stability, I think," he muses. "The routine of prayer, something they're familiar with." The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. "Mostly."

"You provide comfort," she adds. "You bring news from home, and a commitment to taking care of the men. I'd do well to remember that when you come barging into my tent."

"I was not barging in," he corrects her. "And it's hardly _your_ tent."

She purses her lips, breathing deeply through her nose and exhaling again to calm herself. She came in apology, and it'll do neither of them any good for her to split hairs over her choice adjectives.

"No. It's not."

He drains his cup and sets it on the saucer, resting both on his leg as she finishes her own.

"I appreciate this," he tells her quietly. "The tea, I mean. It's mostly coffee out here, and this is a lovely comfort from home."

"It _is_ from home, actually. Well … our home, anyhow. Mrs. Patmore sent us with a hearty supply."

"Mrs. Patmore? _Beryl_ Patmore?"

She smiles again at that. "The same. I didn't realize she'd been there long enough for _you_ to have known her."

"So you know about that, then?" he asks. He's not upset, but he wonders what else she knows that the Major or Lady Sybil may have slipped into the conversation. Then, again, it's possible – although _very_ unlikely – that someone at Downton still might mention his name now and again.

"She arrived six months after I did, or thereabouts," he continues. "I didn't realize it at the time, but now that I look back on it, I think Beryl was the closest thing to a friend that I had back then."

"Really? You're … very different," Elsie observes thoughtfully.

He raises his eyebrows. "You don't like her."

"Oh, I do, actually," she corrects him. "We mixed like oil and water when I was promoted to housekeeper, though. She doesn't like to be challenged in her authority."

"Well, then, Mrs. Hughes," he declares with a straight face, "it would appear that whilst Mrs. Patmore and I are very different, the two of _you_ are quite alike."

Her eyes grow wide with astonishment at his cheek, this man whom she barely knows who ordinarily doesn't appear to have a teasing bone in his entire body.

Just when he's afraid he's made yet another gross misstep, she laughs.

"Right you are, Mr. Carson!"

Elsie stands and adjusts the items on the tray, holding her hand out for his cup and saucer. He lays it on the tray instead, shifting the other items so as not to throw off the balance.

"Still a footman," she murmurs, and her smile warms him.

"Under butler," he corrects gently. "For one month, anyhow."

"And then?"

He looks into her questioning eyes, so clear and blue and full of life, and shakes his head.

"Not a story for today, Mrs. Hughes."

Charles expects an argument, but none comes. She merely nods her head, adjusts her grip on the tray, and bids him a good day.

She's about ten steps from his tent when she turns suddenly, having felt his eyes on her back as she was leaving.

"He's better off knowing about his home," she says. "The soldier. Your timing was atrocious, but your judgment was sound."

Charles nods slowly. "Yes, Mrs. Hughes. I rather thought so myself."

She chuckles as she turns away once again and heads back to her tent. Lady Sybil is surely up by now, and she's got another pot of tea to brew before they both begin their day in earnest.

It's only when she's rinsing the pot that she wonders if the chaplain rises with the sun every day … and whether or not he'd welcome her company on a more regular basis.

* * *

*Soldiers during the war were paid wages, but my research dug up an alarming irregularity in the frequency that those wages could be sent home, dependent on a variety of factors - not the least of which was whether or not the soldiers were actively involved in battle or moving camp. And, obviously, a soldier could have been making less than he was prior to enlisting, if he'd had a well-paying job in his civilian life.

 **A/N: Hello, all! Thanks so much for still being on board with this, and special thanks to my tumblr friends who continue to reblog my stories even if you're not R &R. I truly appreciate all of your support and reviews. **

**I've said this to a few of you but, for the benefit of all, it's important to remember that _this_ Carson wasn't butler at Downton Abbey. Ever. He was there, but never butler. That means that everything we know about his presence and influence over those characters is basically gone. That will be more evident as we move forward, but yes, it'll make some things - some _people_ \- very different. **

**And, of course, you need a "willing suspension of disbelief." :)**

 **xxx,** **CSotA**


	5. Wounded

**A/N: Thank you, everyone, for your lovely reviews! Time for a new character to be introduced, and hopefully some more answers to your questions. My thanks to Hogwarts Duo for taking a peek at this one!** **  
** **xxx,** **  
** **CSotA**

 ** _So here we are together_**

 ** _Just you and me_**

 ** _Sitting side by side_**

 ** _Don't know why_**

 ** _With time just racing by_**

 ** _But I don't want to go_**

 ** _Well I don't know much about it_**

 ** _Cause all I am is what you see_**

 ** _In front of you_**

 ** _There's no more ..._**

 ** _15 June, 1918_**

Over the next two weeks, Charles and Elsie managed to share a cup of morning tea almost daily. Some mornings, there was barely any conversation between them at all, both simply content to sit and enjoy the quiet before the full onset of daily activity.

Then, one day, they heard the distant sound of bombing, which kicked off a steady stream of conversation for the next week and a half. She learned a bit more of his childhood, of how his father had been a groom at Downton and how that's what led Charles to become the hall boy who eventually moved up to footman. He deftly changed the direction of the conversation at that point to _her_ background, learning about life on the farm, about growing up in a home often visited by neighbors in crises or on the cusp of bringing new life into the world. He was enchanted by stories of a young lass from Argyll who knew from the tender age of six to fetch supplies such as towels and bandaging flannels when she heard the noise of a horse approaching at breakneck speed. And even though he asked Elsie to spare him some of the gorier details of childbirth, he learned a bit more of what made the woman tick, of the sorrow - and joy - she saw in her youth that turned her into the capable nurse in the hospital tent.

 **oOoOoOo**

"I have a difficult time imagining you as a housekeeper," he tells her one morning. "I'm ashamed to admit it, nearly, but there it is. Your skill in the medical tent … it's more than just bandages and sterilising tools, Mrs. Hughes."

Her smile is worth the shame he feels.

"Just as being housekeeper in a home with such a large staff is more than simply managing the linen rota and the kitchen store cupboard, Mr. Carson." She raises an eyebrow, and he nods in acknowledgement. "And being a chaplain, I presume, is different than parish ministry?"

He sits back, resting his empty teacup on its saucer, and purses his lips in thought. She expected an easy answer and is a bit taken aback by his thoughtfulness.

"I wouldn't know, precisely," he says slowly. "I imagine so."

Elsie's eyes widen. "You mean you're not installed anywhere? I didn't realise that."

"Well, I should have been," he clarifies, "but then the call came to serve the troops, and here I am, having tea with a housekeeper!"

She laughs, and the soft, happy tones of it resound in his heart.

 **oOoOoOo**

After another week, there's a shift in soldiers. Dozens have been discharged due to injury and illness, and a new group from Yorkshire is being brought in. The hospital tent, emptier than it's been in a month, is cleaned as thoroughly as is possible under the current circumstances, and the warmth of the heightening summer means that it needs to be aired out as well, flaps secured back as the nurses all have their sleeves rolled up, sweat dripping from their brows. Sister Margaret is barking orders left and right, but Major Clarkson realises - with a great deal of amusement and also a modicum of pride - that it's Mrs. Hughes who's _truly_ in charge, giving whispered suggestions and hints to the others under her breath that make all the work go just a little bit faster and easier.

The new men arrive in a flurry of confusion, transport having been held up at the border and a rainstorm making some of the road ways impassable for half a day. It's William who bumps into Mrs. Hughes on her way back to her tent that first night, exhausted, and he informs her that Thomas Barrow has joined up and is now bunking four tents down from himself and Captain Crawley.

"Well, well," Elsie muses, her eyebrows raised at William's news. "That's an interesting twist."

"There's a story there, Mrs. Hughes," he replies. "I'm not certain I want to know what it is, though."

She reaches out and pats his arm. "No," she agrees, "probably not. Take care, William, and thank you. I think you've saved me a bit of a shock come tomorrow."

"Sleep well," he replies. "I think we're all going to need it."

Elsie spots Thomas in the mess tent the following morning. He doesn't notice her at first, but she knows the dark, smoking figure at the other end is him simply from the form of his stature.

"Mr. Barrow," she says as she approaches his side, and he turns swiftly, startled. "You're perhaps the last person I expected to arrive _here._ "

He smirks. "Hello, Mrs. Hughes." The cigarette butt is discarded into the sand, and he crushes it out with the tip of his new boot. "Corporal Barrow, actually. Time to move on to bigger and better things, I say."

"Here?" Her tone is incredulous. "I think perhaps you have a rather romantic notion of war, if this is a preferable setting to Downton."

"Well, they've gone and made old Molesley butler," he grumbles. "Couldn't enlist himself, you see. Some medical thing or other."

The disdain in his eyes is clear, and even Elsie is a bit surprised at the news he shares. Mr. Molesley is dedicated to the family, certainly, but even she - champion of the underdog - doesn't think he has the strength or the skill to be butler of Downton.

"Well, I suppose everyone deserves a chance," she attempts.

"Not me, though, is that right?"

She looks at him with disappointment. "I didn't say _that,_ and you know it. But it certainly wasn't _my_ responsibility to choose the new butler."

"Hm … perhaps not." He lights another cigarette. "Mrs. Hughes, let me ask you something. If you _had_ been there ... if they'd asked you ... would you have spoken up for me, do you think?" He takes a deep drag and exhales two rings of smoke. "No."

Elsie tilts her head a bit, thoughtful, and thoroughly examines his countenance.

"I'm not sure," is her honest reply. "You've the skill for it, certainly. Your knowledge of wines is atrocious, though, and Mr. Molesley has that over you - although only barely, if my memory serves me correctly. He's more affable, but you've got a better knack for reading a room and responding in an appropriate manner to most situations when it suits you. The problem, really, is that it _doesn't_ always suit you to do that, and Mr. Molesley - whilst often a bit on the back foot - always has his heart in the right place."

He's shocked into silence for a moment, and then deeply hurt by her frank assessment as the words all begin to sink in.

"You asked," she reminded him, "and it wouldn't do us any good to lie to one another now, would it? Not here."

Thomas is about to reply but he's bumped aside as a soldier - who ends up being William - bursts through the door, his eyes trained only on Mrs. Hughes.

"Come quickly," he gasps, his eyes locked on hers. "It's the Padre."

Thomas watches with interest as the blood quickly drains from the housekeeper's face, realising instantly that the regiment's chaplain - whom Thomas has yet to even meet - is clearly a better friend to Mrs. Hughes than he, himself, will ever be.

As she and William rush away, Thomas crushes out the cigarette against the sole of his boot, sliding it half-unsmoked into his case. A soldier passes by him, offering a sandwich.

"Not hungry," he mumbles, deep in thought.

He'd requested this specific regiment hoping for a bit of sympathy and a friendly face.

 _Doesn't look like I'm going to get any of those,_ he realizes much, _much_ too late.

 **oOoOoOo**

Elsie is nearly out of breath when she reaches the hunched-over figure of the chaplain in his camp chair. The information she'd gotten out of William was incomplete, and so all she knows is that the Reverend had collapsed at some point during his preparations for a planned religious service that afternoon.

What she encounters upon reaching his side is a very agonized man, although her initial assessment indicates no visible injury.

"Mr. Carson? Whatever is the matter?"

He attempts to wave her away, as if she shouldn't even be concerned, but she takes his arm in a huff and encourages him to stand.

"I'm fine," he says in a feeble attempt to put her off. "I just had a bit of a turn."

"'A bit of a turn?' Mr. Carson, you're pale as a sheet and perspiring more than anyone I've seen all day. It's bed for you!" She lays her hand over his where he's grasping onto the inside of her arm for support, and that's when she spots the flannel. William is still nearby, and she has an innate suspicion that the chaplain doesn't want to discuss anything further in front of the young man.

"William," she says in a soft-but-no-nonsense voice, "I think we're fine for now. Please inform the others that the religious service for today will be postponed."

Charles attempts to argue, but Elsie gives him a look that silences him immediately.

"Of course." William turns to leave, then abruptly turns back to face her. "I don't know what we'd do around here without you, Mrs. Hughes. I really don't." And, with that, he turns and leaves them.

"Now," Elsie murmurs to Charles, a bit of a flustered air about her, "let's get you to your tent, and I'll take care of whatever has happened to your hand as you give me all the sordid details."

His eyebrows fly up at her use of the word _sordid._ "It's not as serious as all that," he mumbles.

"I'll be the judge of that, Mr. Carson."

The walk back to his tent goes slowly, and Elsie realizes about halfway there that he's allowing her to support a bit of his physical weight - a clear sign that the man is feeling quite a bit worse than he'd initially indicated.

"Surely you don't intend to come in?" Charles asks, horrified.

"Oh, please, _Padre,"_ Elsie says with a roll of her eyes. "We can leave the flaps wide open so there's no hint of a scandal. But you're getting into bed, and I'm going to fetch some supplies and return to clean and bandage that hand properly, and nothing you can say will change that."

He mumbles under his breath, something that sounds remarkably like _insufferable woman_ to Elsie's ears, but she ignores it as she's settling him onto his cot.

"Now, let me see the hand," she says kindly, reaching out for it. Charles has no choice but to obey, unless he wants to seem like a petulant child.

"See? It's already stopped bleeding," he says as he removes the flannel and holds his hand out for inspection.

Any further words he may have spoken die in his throat when she takes his hand in hers. She rests the back of his injured hand in her palm, brushing her fingers over the skin around his cut, and the softness of her skin is a surprise to him given the hard work he knows she's doing day in and day out. She tosses her head a bit, presumably to move a stray piece of hair, and he catches a whiff of vanilla about her … something so oddly _feminine_ and _soft_ and _comforting_ in this world of men and chaos, war and death.

The hair hasn't moved, and just as he's contemplating reaching to brush it aside, as it's clearly annoying her, their eyes meet. It takes a few seconds for him to understand that she seems to be expecting some kind of reply.

"I'm sorry?" he says feebly.

Elsie purses her lips and sighs. "You're worse off than I thought, Mr. Carson. I asked how you cut yourself?"

"Oh. Right," he stammers, flushing. "Stupid, really. Was getting everything out of the kit* and noticed the candle needed trimming. I slipped with the knife."

"I see." Elsie shifts the flannel and places it back on his hand. "Hold that over the cut and press. Do _not_ leave. I'll be back in less than five minutes to clean that properly and bandage you up."

He watches her go, her stride determined, and chuckles when she pins open the flaps of his tent before leaving the area for what he presumes is the hospital tent. He'd been loath to tell her the _real_ reason he'd cut himself, that his hand had been trembling a bit and rather than sharpening the knife as he'd known he should, he'd assumed that one or two more cuts with it would go without incident. But the blade had snagged on the candle's wick, and that small factor combined with a shake of his hand and … well. The knife slipped and cut into his palm - rather deeply from what he could see and feel.

The trembling is new, and it frightens him to think about it. When it had first happened, he'd attributed it to a lack of sleep. Then it had appeared twice more, but always during times of increased stress, and so he'd thought nothing much of it. But today, this morning, there seemed to be no reason for it at all. For the first time, Charles wondered if the palsy that had afflicted his father and grandfather before him had finally made its way to his own body. He's almost sixty, a bit younger than both of them had been when it had begun, and he'd thought his luck would hold out.

"Damn," he whispers just as Elsie is returning.

"I can come back at a more convenient time, if you'd prefer," she teases.

"I didn't -"

"I know you didn't mean me," she reassures him, setting a rather large tray down on his bedside table.

"You've brought tea," he states foolishly.

"I have."

Elsie pulls over a chair and dips the clean flannel she's brought into a bowl of hot water. They spend the next several minutes in relative silence, save for a small gasp from him as he winces while she cleans the wound, and some unintelligible murmuring from her that he's not even sure is English. She's intent on her work, her movements efficient, but her touch is gentle and kind and he's immediately certain that this is why the soldiers all take a liking to Mrs. Hughes: while the others are all business, she somehow manages to address the physical wound with care but remember that there's a living, feeling person on the other end of it.

"We're rather alike, you and I," he says, and she looks up in surprise.

"I thought I was like Mrs. Patmore," she reminds him, one of her eyebrows raised in amusement.

"Ah, well, that was before I knew you," he says softly, and his eyes look deep into her own as he takes a deep breath, the words a bit of a jumble in his mind, pressing him to speak them aloud. "You see the humanity in everyone here, as I try to do. It's evident in your touch, Mrs. Hughes, in the care with which you bandage a simple cut. I think it's why the men respect you, why they _like_ you so much, if you will."

"Ah," she nods, understanding, his words echoing in her mind into a question she longs to, but dares not, ask.

She finds her voice again after a moment. "And you're the same. Yes, I suppose that's true. I know you care deeply about them, Mr. Carson. _Padre._ Slipping them tobacco and a kind word when you can. I hear you're quite a common presence in the tent during the overnights as well." She purses her lips. "Likely why you're overtired now and will be confined to this bed for the next ten hours."

"Well … when someone is quite poorly ..." he whispers sadly, his words just a bit unsteady. "When one is at the end, Mrs. Hughes, a press of the hand can be a grain of comfort."

She fastens the gauze around his hand and her touch lingers, her fingers tracing another scar that runs over his palm, her mind wondering how many other injuries the man has sustained over the course of his life.

 _We all bear scars …_ Her mam's voice is a distant whisper in her mind, but there nonetheless.

"Why did you cut yourself today, Mr. Carson? What really happened? Because I know you're overtired and in desperate need of good rest, but that's not all there is to it."

She turns to pour the tea, and he sees her bite down on her lip, knowing by now that she's a bit uncomfortable - perhaps at her forthrightness, perhaps not.

But when she turns, she spots the unease in his own expression.

"Oh, Mr. Carson," she murmurs, handing him the saucer and cup with which he's become intimately familiar these past several weeks, "your secrets are safe with me."

He tilts his head, pondering. After a few seconds he decides with a faint nod that she's probably right.

"My grandfather had something we had no name for back then. We called it the _palsy …_ "

 ** _Feels so close and yet so far_**

 ** _But I don't want to go_**

 ** _Here I am, take my hand_**

 ** _Here I am, please take my hand_**

 ** _I'd like to sit here with you if that's alright …_**

" ** _There's A Place for Us," Phil Collins_**

*Chaplain's Kit - the items, normally contained in some kind of valise, that were assigned to a war chaplain in order that he might conduct services for the troops. Often contained within were bottles for water, a goblet or chalice, candles and candlesticks, sometimes a table cloth, and a cross.

 **Would love a review if you're so inclined. Thank you!**


	6. Breaking

**A/N: This was supposed to be a MAHOOSIVE chapter, but things didn't go as planned. Please do let me know what you think. It's safe to say we are approaching the end of what the lovely Danielle Shepherd calls "Act I" of this fic, which will arrive with Chapter 7. My apologies for not yet replying to reviews (I'll do those later this weekend), but I wanted to get an update out for Good Bo, who deserves all the cups of tea contained in this story and then some.**

 **No song for this one, but a quote that is rather fitting.**

 **xxx**

 **CSotA**

* * *

" _ **I tell myself I am searching for something. But more and more, it feels like I am wandering, waiting for something to happen to me, something that will change everything, something that my whole life has been leading up to."**_

 _ **-Khaled Hosseini**_

 _ **August, 1918**_

The rest of the summer is fairly quiet for their regiment, and the men have settled into their new posts. Advances on the front have been made and injuries have been few; Corporal Barrow became Lance Sergeant Barrow, a swift promotion that was awarded due to his willingness to assist Major Clarkson in whatever ways possible. The Major frequently remarks to Elsie how impressed he is with Barrow as a medic, and how he perhaps had a misunderstood impression of him at Downton.

Elsie, to her credit, doesn't offer much up to convince him otherwise. War is a tricky business, but it's infinitely trickier when one loses trust in one's medical team.

Mr. Carson is back to his usual, seemingly-healthy self now, and Elsie is happy about that. She attended one of the services he held in the camp, saw a slight tremble of his hand as he lifted the cup, but she was looking for it, watching intently, and she's certain that no one else would have noticed a single thing amiss. Gratitude filled her heart that day, and she returned to her shift in the hospital tent wondering why, precisely, she could not stop thinking about the chaplain. She's been reminding herself repeatedly since that day that he's a man of God, that he's chosen a path which is unlikely (although not impossible) to welcome a wife into its midst. And she's been reminding herself that it's not even her place to wonder about that at all.

 _No. He needs a friend,_ she tells herself, and she's more than willing to be that for him.

It won't do anyone a bit of good to fantasize about what life might be like _after_ this seemingly never-ending war.

 **oOoOoOo**

It's outside of Amiens that things begin to take a drastic turn.

Explosions in the distance startle Charles from a sound sleep, causing him to wake with a jerk and send a few items crashing to the floor from his small bedside table. He jumps from the bed and quickly splashes cold water on his face before donning his uniform. He picks up the hat, brushes a piece of lint from the point in front, and is already halfway out of the tent before the hat even makes it onto his head.

Crossing the camp is relatively easy in the light of the moon, and Charles realizes that he had no real goal in mind when he set out, but he finds himself in the hospital tent and talking to, of all people, Lance Sergeant Barrow.

"Padre," the younger man says in greeting. There's no tip of the head or hat, nothing of deference in his manner at all, which is odd given Charles's position and reputation in the camp.

Charles raises his eyebrows in reply - a challenge, of sorts, although he's not sure why Barrow's manner bothers him so.

They stand staring at one another until Charles manages to speak.

"They're nearly here," he observes, dragging his gaze to the horizon and noting with a bit of fear in his belly that the landscape is now lit by more than just the moon, that there are small bits of fire off in the distance as well. "Have the men been awakened?"

"I've no idea, do I? I'm in here talking to you," Thomas replies with a roll of the eyes.

Charles tries a different tactic. "You weren't at the service last week."

"Better things to do than all that," Thomas scoffs.

"A bit of belief in God seems to bring most men comfort in times such as these."

Thomas just stares at him for a moment, then laughs. "Do you think God is watching over us and lending a helping hand?" he asks incredulously. "Here?" He sweeps his own arm out to indicate the beds before them, three-quarters empty but ready and waiting for what's to come. "Do you think he'll keep all these beds empty, Padre? I doubt it."

"One must always have faith in God's plan."

Thomas scoffs and turns away, nearly bumping into Elsie.

"Oh!" she exclaims. "Mr. Barrow!"

He scowls, and she immediately corrects herself, albeit with some disdain. "Pardon me. _Lance Sergeant._ Is everything alright?"

Thomas shoots a glance to Charles, then back to Elsie.

"I've suddenly come down with a terrible headache," he replies with a sneer.

"Well," she replies coolly, "I'm sure you'll be able to put that aside given that you have more important things to be getting on with … such as checking over the supplies that Sister had us put aside, perhaps?"

He exits the tent without a word, and Elsie turns to Charles.

"What was _that_ all about?" she inquires.

Charles ponders that for a few moments. "I think it was about his lack of faith," he replies honestly.

"Oh, he has faith," Elsie muses thoughtfully. "Just not in God, perhaps. More in himself and his ability to persevere through life on his own."

"Has he always been that way?" Charles finds himself curious. The rest of their regiment seem kind enough, following orders when given and watching out for one another when things are more peaceful. The Lance Sergeant stands out like a sore thumb, particularly in the medical arena, which is smaller and teeming with soft-spoken men and women, and it's puzzling to the chaplain in a way he can't quite put his finger on.

"Ever since we've known one another," Elsie replies. "Anyhow, enough about him. How long do you think before we're under attack?"

Charles hears the fear in her voice, and it makes him stand a bit straighter in a vain attempt to bolster her.

"A few hours, perhaps a bit less," he answers. His voice is tight, and she knows immediately that his confidence is tinged with anxiety.

"I've about an hour, then, before I'll be on call," she says. "Would you care for a quick cuppa? I know it's too early, but it may be our last chance for quite a while. And I daresay neither of us is going back to sleep."

"Let's say ... in twenty minutes? That'll give me a chance to check in with the Major and go over a few things."

"Perfect," she replies. "I'll come 'round to yours if that's alright. Let poor Lady Sybil sleep as long as she can. It's a wonder she didn't already awaken, but she's been exhausted lately."

He nods, his heart soothed from its anxiety just a bit at the thought of sharing another few moments of Mrs. Hughes's precious time.

 **oOoOoOo**

Twenty minutes later finds Elsie is at a bit of a loss standing outside of the chaplain's tent, tray in hand, with neither chair nor table in sight. After a moment's consideration, she pops her head through the partially-opened flap, verifies that he's not yet returned, and passes through in search of a place to set her things down for a moment.

The interior of his tent is meticulous, save for a small mess she spots only after stepping around the cot. Thankful for the waning moonlight and the fact that the lantern she's brought along hasn't yet snuffed itself out, she manages to skirt around the glass and pieces of paper.

"What on Earth?" she mutters, placing the tray on the bedside table and the lantern on the ground. She bends down to gather the items by her feet, assuming they were knocked over in the middle of the night and forgotten about ... although that doesn't seem like him.

There are two loose photographs, which she carefully stacks and lays on the bed, and a third one still stuck in a small, wooden frame, clearly the source of the glass on the ground. She gathers the largest bits of glass carefully and discards them, then places the frame and photo with the others.

An attempt to smooth out the papers shows her that they're actually a letter, and it's as she's putting the pages back into what she thinks is the correct order, she's startled by the man himself stumbling upon her presence.

"What do you think you're doing?" His voice is barely calm and controlled only by a need to not alert the rest of the camp to her presence in his tent. He approaches her swiftly, sees a bit of unease in her face that he doesn't care a jot about in the moment, and snatches the papers from her grasp.

"I was picking those up for you," she replies in a startled whisper. She points to the bed where she's placed the other items. "The glass from your frame was broken. I picked that up as well so that you wouldn't cut yourself."

"Because of my ... infirmity, you mean?"

She's positively stunned by his attitude toward her, and she feels her feathers ruffle.

"No," she replies steadily, "because it was the kind thing to do, Mr. Carson. The photographs don't seem to be damaged by the cut glass, thankfully."

He leans around her to pick them up, and she sees something strange cross his face when he glances at the one in the frame. Unable to help herself, she looks at it, and a soft smile appears on her lips.

"Your sister?" she guesses.

It's the deep crimson that climbs his cheeks, clear to her even in the lantern night, that makes her realize her mistake.

"Oh," she nearly whispers. "I see. You've … You've someone back home, then?" She swallows a hard, painful lump in her throat, not even wanting an answer to her question. Turning, she pours the tea with a shaking hand.

"No," he finally replies. "It's an old photograph. A memory, that's all."

"Well, clearly important enough to have it here with you," she allows, thinking back to her own bedside table in the tent she shares with Lady Sybil, the one that lies bare, and to the solitary photograph she has of Becky, which rests tucked inside Elsie's Bible.

"I have few possessions, Mrs. Hughes," he clarifies, and he moves to secure the tent flap open before indicating that she's to sit _inside_ the tent with him. It seems better this way, that he can explain himself a bit without the rest of the camp happening along and hearing them.

"All that I have that's of value I brought with me," he adds after he takes his own seat. "Which isn't much, I'll admit. I've never had need of anything, really, not keeping my own home. Other than some books and clothing which are being kept safe by a friend in Yorkshire, all the _things_ I possess are the items here in this tent."

Elsie sips her tea, not speaking.

"I'm sorry if I startled you when I came back," Charles says, his quiet voice full of remorse. "I thought you'd been going through my things, that you were _reading …_ I see I was wrong."

"I didn't have time to read more than a few bits, just enough to sort the pages," she tells him. "It's good that you've had a friend with whom to correspond."

He huffs. "He's no friend, just a part of the past that I closed the door on long ago."

"Ah, I see. So he's not the keeper of the books and cothing?"

"Oh … no. Those are with an actual friend - the Reverend Edmund Martin."

Elsie sips her tea, feels a need to shift the conversation, and does so.

"I am sorry I intruded on your space, Mr. Carson. I simply needed a spot to set the tray down, but you'd pulled the things inside."

She gets a silent tilt of his head in reply, but it's enough.

They remain quiet for a few moments, and he takes the time to glance surreptitiously at her face. It's more relaxed now that they've settled the dust from earlier, and he finds her quite lovely, indeed. He notes the strands of gray threaded in her auburn tresses, more visible when they're seated closely to one another. It startles him when she meets his gaze and catches him out; his lips part and a soft gasp passes through them, but he doesn't shy away.

Elsie's heart beats a bit faster as she feels the power behind his gaze; there's something there, something she hadn't actually noticed before, and it's both frightening and exhilarating.

Footsteps pounding on the dirt outside finally break through their quiet reverie.

"Mrs. Hughes," comes William's frantic voice, and his head pops through the doorway. "Come quickly. Our advance forces were attacked, and you're needed in the hospital tent." He turns to Charles and adds, "They're coming, Padre. Pray for us all."

* * *

 **Sorry for that, but it did seem fitting for them to be interrupted. Canon and all. Please let me know what you thought! x**


	7. Letters

**A/N: First off, if you missed the last chapter because the website didn't send out an alert, please make sure you read that before this one as this picks up immediately after that chapter ends.**

 **Usual disclaimer applies: I'm neither a physician nor a war specialist, so if you are one of those things … well, I apologize if anything is inaccurate despite copious research. (As promised on tumblr, there will be no rats.)**

 **THANK YOU for all of your amazing, encouraging reviews. And please send some love on tumblr to girl-loves-cake, who did the manip cover pic for this story at my request. That image is important to this chapter.**

 **Song choice for this chapter really should be listened to. It's called "I Love You," by Sarah McLachlan. It's painfully beautiful and easily found online with YT, Apple Music, or Spotify.**

 **xxx,**

 **CSotA**

 _Previously:_

 _Footsteps pounding on the dirt outside finally break through their quiet reverie._

 _"Mrs. Hughes," comes William's frantic voice, and his head pops through the doorway. "Come quickly. Our advanced forces were attacked, and you're needed in the hospital tent." He turns to Charles and adds, "They're coming, Padre. Pray for us all."_

 **oOoOoOo**

 _ **August, 1918**_

 _ **Battle of Amiens**_

 _ **The night's too long**_

 _ **and cold here without you ...**_

Elsie nearly drops her teacup. "Now?"

William, however, is already running back, Charles takes the cup and saucer for her as she tries to push through her shock.

 _Under attack._

She's seen injury and death, the business of war, over and over since arriving months before. But this is the first time the enemy has been on top of them, directly in their area, about to invade their camp and descend into their trenches … This has practically become their _home,_ although she can barely wrap her head around how _that_ happened _._

"Mrs. Hughes? We need to go. _Now._ "

She looks up to him, his standing, imposing, impressive form, and quickly gets to her feet with a firm nod and a bit of self-bolstering.

"Right. The tray …"

"Leave it," he advises, reaching for his hat and securing it on top of his head.

She breaks into a run about five steps outside of his tent, the steady tread of his heavy footfalls blending into the cacophony behind her as she runs farther and farther from him … and into what she knows will be a scene like nothing she's ever witnessed in her life.

' _Pray for us.'_ She hears the echo of William's words in her mind. _Yes,_ she thinks. _Pray for us all, Mr. Carson. And pray that we may see one another again when this battle is over._

The thought of seeing him after the end of it all is a comfort to her, albeit a guilty one. But right now, as the sound of gunfire and cannon fire explodes around them and Captain Crawley is a hundred meters away leading his men through the trench, she grasps that comfort like a life raft. The night is unusually cold, and despite how the hospital tent is teeming with activity, she suddenly feels desperately alone.

 **oOoOoOo**

Elsie is assigned to triage, where she'll be assisting in assessing the immediate need of the incoming soldiers. Technically it's a duty beyond her qualification, but Sister has seen in her an ability to make the hard calls in moments of difficulty, a strength in working with the naked truth when others would try to gloss over it with hope.

An hour goes by. Then two. There is little conversation among them, each person withdrawn into his or her own thoughts. Elsie counts them all half a dozen times - two men, ten women. _Not enough._ They'll do what they can, but the fact that men will come into this tent in droves and die within hours is the stark reality they'll soon be facing. They simply do not have the staff required to treat that many people all at once, never mind the supplies that are always sent in insufficient amounts.

No other battle she's seen has been like this.

She looks over to Lady Sybil, sees the fear on the young woman's face, and approaches her and takes her hand.

Sybil swallows, then looks to Elsie with a bit more determination.

"Mama has agreed to the use of Downton as a convalescent home," she says. "It was in her last letter."

Elsie, too, received similar news, the papers currently tucked away in her pocket.

"Yes. She mentioned that."

Another bomb; screaming, quite distant, but audible.

"It will be sorely needed, I fear," Elsie whispers.

 **oOoOoOoOo**

Over the course of the next day and a half, Elsie doesn't really sleep. She nods off in spurts when Sister forces a shift change, but before she can sleep, she's summoned to return. This happens twice before she and the rest of the nurses take it in turns to rest in the soldiers' tent nearest the hospital; it's empty, anyhow. But the noise from explosions, gunfire, screaming … and, eventually, the scent of gunpowder mixed with the faint scent of antiseptic and of blood … those things keep Elsie awake and make her wonder if she'll ever truly forget them.

She's restocking the supply cabinet when their newest patient is brought in and laid on the cot nearest to where she stands. A hand to her elbow and murmured direction indicate that she's to assess him and begin treatment.

Elsie gasps when she turns to look at the man, noticing two things about him that are truly remarkable: the first is his physical appearance - older, with a scruffy beard, thick midsection, and ruddy complexion that, just for a moment, all remind her of Joe; the second is that this man, who is bleeding profusely and not likely to survive the night, is no soldier.

"How did you get here?" she asks quietly, encouraging him to lie still as she shifts his clothing a bit and retrieves some clean water and flannels from a nearby table. "What's your name?"

The man sits up abruptly and coughs, leaning over the side of the cot so as not to cough all over _her._ But Elsie cringes at the sound of it, at the deep hacking, easily recognizable. She hands him a cloth, which he uses to cover his mouth.

When the coughing ceases and he manages to lie back down, Elsie finds a second pillow to prop him up a bit more.

The cloth remains in his hand, tinged with blood as she knew it would be.

"I know it isn't good," he says, his voice thick and raspy, "and I tried not to even be here. There's no hope for me, Sister, and there'll be a lot of good men in need of my space."

"Well, you're here now," Elsie tells him, not bothering to explain her position. "Let's try to do what we can to make you comfortable, alright?"

He nods, settles back onto the pillow, and allows her to work.

Elsie snips away his shirt, revealing his injury: a gunshot wound, high on his bicep, one which seemingly has ceased bleeding, making her presume the shot is still packed inside of his flesh. She knows there's no point in removing it, and when Major Clarkson happens by minutes later, he confirms that for her. By then the wound is cleaned as best it can be, antibiotic applied and the arm bandaged.

"Caught in the crossfire," the man mumbles, and then he drifts off.

"It's the cough that worries me more, Major," Elsie says quietly. Her patient is sleeping, and she knows that within the next hour or two he'll need to be sent off - he's not even in their regiment, and there is no way to justify keeping him.

"Where did he even come from?" the Major asks her. "Why in the world would _any_ man be even remotely close to all of this? I assumed initially he was a local, not an Englishman."

"He didn't say much," she replies. "It was all mysterious, really, something about how 'fate dropped a bomb on him' or some such thing. He's asked to see the chaplain."

"Well, mention him to the Padre when he comes around. I don't know that he'll even have time for the man, but at least we'll have done the most we can for him. Did you ever get his name?"

Before she can reply, she sees the chaplain himself bustle into the tent. He's out of breath, completely disheveled, and her heart bursts.

"Mr. Carson," she says, approaching him and laying a steadying hand on his arm. "Are you alright?"

"Where is he?" he grumbles, scanning the beds. "Barrow told me he was looking for me, that they'd brought him into the tent …"

"You mean Mr. Grigg?"

His mouth falls open. "So he _is_ here?" he demands, his voice a low growl that she's never heard before.

Elsie points to the bed where the not-soldier rests, and watches with a small modicum of fear as Mr. Carson approaches him.

"I told you never to return," she hears him say, and she watches as the patient resumes his deathly coughing before being able to speak.

"Don't worry, Charlie," he says to the chaplain. "I'll be dead come morning. Cancer."

Charles sits beside the cot, his head hanging down. Elsie sees a nurse begin to approach them, but she holds the younger woman back with a hand to her arm and a soft shake of the head.

"You've been dead to _me_ a long while," Elsie hears Charles say. "What I don't understand is why you've been looking for me after all this time."

"I wasn't _looking_ for you," Charlie replies. "I was mindin' my own business when you and your troops fell into my lap! The day you stumbled into that pub … I'll never forget that, you know. And I want to thank you for your help after that, when I wrote. Both for the food, and- "

He's cut off by a shake of the chaplain's head, and Elsie sees them both look around, wondering if they've been overheard. When Mr. Carson's eyes find hers, he looks ashamed, and she turns away to tend to another two soldiers who've just been brought in, wondering about the connection between the two men named Charles but having neither the time nor the justification to investigate it any further.

It's just before she leaves the tent for a bite to eat that she overhears their patient's voice one last time.

"Alice died, Charlie. Years ago now. But she wanted you to know …"

 **oOoOoOo**

True to his word, Charlie Grigg passes away at just past one in the morning. Elsie is with him, holding his hand, and Mr. Carson is nowhere to be found. She thinks she's pieced a few things together now, and while she's a bit taken aback, it's a stark reminder that Mr. Carson has a past, and it's one she knows little about.

It's also a reminder that she, too, has a past. It's one she hasn't ever spoken of with Mr. Carson, save for the one day she'd mentioned Peter Burns and then, in a roundabout way, Joe. That was the only time she ever let her guard down with the chaplain, and she wonders now if she weren't confessing some guilt to the man in his professional capacity - guilt at having abandoned Joe when he needed her and then turning him away once again when he came calling back around a couple of years ago. She had talked of her guilt at having put her own career goals before the needs and wishes of a man she once thought she'd loved.

Contrary to what she assumed he'd say, Mr. Carson hadn't chided her for it at all. He'd given her comforting words about how life altered her, and he'd made her feel at ease with the fact that her past was no longer how she determined where her future would lie.

Until now. Now her past is haunting her everywhere she looks as the caring of soldiers wounded on the front has so often melded in her mind with scenes from her youth, of farmers wounded from machinery, in a fight at the local, and more. She may not be that farm girl anymore, but she'd be lying if she said it wasn't still a _part_ of who she is.

And now she wonders if Mr. Carson has often thought the same things about himself, trying to run away from a past that continues to occupy a small part of _his_ heart, regardless of how many alterations he's had on his own life's path. She overheard enough of his conversation with Charlie Grigg to have put some things together in her head.

It's an hour later, when she's changing the bed linens for the thousandth time, when she has an idea. It's nothing grand, but it's the only way she can think of to meaningfully express what's eating away at her mind … and her heart.

 _ **I grieve in my condition,**_

 _ **for I cannot find the words to say I need you so ...**_

The fighting has ceased, or so it seems, and the offensive attack was deemed a success, although Charles would never call it that based solely upon what he has seen, heard, and done through the duration of it all. He is aghast at his appearance, grateful that there's no looking glass in sight. Covered in filth, the green hue of his uniform now sepia-toned, with dark burgundy showing the areas he couldn't keep protected from the blood of dozens of men. He's administered last rites more in the past forty-eight hours that he had done in the previous forty-eight _months,_ and the horror of that one detail alone nearly consumes him, making him question everything he thought about the life that led him to where he is today.

Dawn has broken on the new day, and Charles makes his way to a nearby stream, wishing for the communal bath house they'd managed to keep at their previous camp. But it's better than being stuck in the trenches, and gratitude for their relatively good location just behind the front lines fills him as he kneels carefully at the bank, removing his shirt and vest and discarding them in the thin grass as he bends forward and splashes water on his face, neck, head, and chest. He scoops it up in his large hands, careful not to drink any as he cleans his hair as best he can. Only when the skin of his hands is back to its normal color does he cease his scrubbing. He dries with the vest, planning to head immediately for his tent and change his clothing.

Lice runs rampant in war camps at the best of times, and these certainly aren't the best. A quick examination of his shirt confirms that he's managed to avoid them, thankfully, and he dons it quickly and buttons it to his chin. He stands gingerly, aware of every creak, crack, and groan his body emits, and a ghost of a memory hits him; he turns, half-expecting Mrs. Hughes to be watching him from across the field. She, of course, is nowhere to be seen, and he curses himself for his foolishness.

His steps are heavy and slow as he enters his tent. He doesn't know how he'll sleep, despite his incredible exhaustion. Stripping off his shirt, he tosses it to the ground and lifts his bag, placing it on the bed in order to remove cleaner clothes. He lights the lantern, and that's when he notices something amiss in his otherwise orderly quarters: a silver frame, set atop his bedside table and glimmering in the flicker of the lantern's night, with Alice's photograph set inside of it.

He stands for several moments just staring at the thing, an array of emotions flooding through him. There's surprise, of course. And just underneath that, definitely consternation as he realizes that Mrs. Hughes has, not once but _twice_ now, been sifting through his belongings.

 _It has to be her,_ he thinks with a sharp nod. _No one else even knows about the photograph. Well, perhaps Grigg knew_ … _but he certainly didn't leave his deathbed to re-frame it._

When Charles finally moves, it's to take his clothing out of his bag as planned and change, the filthy ones set well aside so that they can be washed as soon as possible. Truth be told, he's not even sure the blood will come out this time. There is just _so much._

Once he's changed, he sits at the edge of the cot and reaches for the frame. He holds it gingerly, as if it were much more fragile than it appears, and his thumb brushes over the curved corner. Alice's features stand out to him in a new way: her eyes, dark as her hair, and the lack of a smile on her lips more telling now that he'd ever found it before. They'd been happy once, he thought all those years ago, but now he realizes it was _him_ who was happy … but that Alice, sadly, was not. She sought happiness and adventure in the likes of Charlie Grigg instead, and Charles believes now that the choice she made for _her_ happiness also led him to his own. He's found his purpose in life, in the church and in the service of others, and he's been more content in the second half of his lifetime than he ever was in the first.

Until now _._ Because his _now_ involves Mrs. Hughes, and she was altogether unplanned for and unexpected. And suddenly memories of dark hair and deep brown eyes are replaced with flashes of auburn and blue.

He sets the frame on the table, and the only emotions he feels in his chest now are appreciation for the extreme kindness she showed in setting the photograph into a different frame and confusion as to what her motives were. Surely she felt no responsibility for the broken one, as she wasn't the one who broke it.

The silver frame must be dear to her. It's not new, he can tell that enough by the scuffs and small scratches he sees when he examines it closely. And Mrs. Hughes alluded once in conversation to not really having much in the way of personal possessions, so Charles is quite befuddled as to why she'd bestow such a seemingly precious one on him.

There's nothing to be done about it. He'll have to return it to her as soon as he can … once he finds out the _why_ behind it.

With a deep sigh, Charles reaches for his prayer book, into which he placed two crisp, off-white sheets of paper last week. He opens them now, reading the contents as a _new_ man - one who has recently seen death and destruction like he'd never imagined in his wildest nightmares, and one who finally managed to make a modicum of peace with the friend who'd betrayed him decades ago. Charlie Grigg's words barely even matter anymore, for it's the fact that things were settled with honesty that means the most to Charles.

The letter is from Edmund, his stationary recognizable to Charles from the quality alone. In it, Edmund writes of a new post - a small church, past Yorkshire, where the present curate is ill. He writes that he will hold the post for Charles; it'll be waiting for him whenever he's released from the front and able to return to England. It's a wonderful opportunity, a small parish with a dedicated community, and the area would be a lovely place to retire to once Charles felt he was ready.

He sits on the bed, the letter shaking slightly as he grasps it in his hand, and comes to a decision.

 **oOoOoOo**

Elsie is barely managing to contain her emotions by the middle of the day. Not having seen Mr. Carson to actually ask him about Grigg is weighing on her, and she isn't certain why. But she feels it may have to do with the woman whose photograph she recently placed in her old silver frame.

"Hello?"

She jumps when his voice sounds outside of her tent, and she feels foolish when she glances toward Lady Sybil's cot, knowing full well the young woman isn't anywhere to be seen. It's not as if having the chaplain come to talk is scandalous by any stretch of the imagination, but she doesn't really _share_ details of their friendship with anyone, either.

 _Friendship._ She always assumed it was that - a very good one, forged during the most awful of times. But after the other day, the way he was _looking_ at her … well, she's not sure now.

"Mrs. Hughes? Are you there?"

"I am," she calls out, standing abruptly and absentmindedly brushing a lock of hair back into place as she makes her way outside. "Mr. Carson. What can I do for you?"

That's when she sees his hand shaking, but she doesn't have a chance to mention it.

"There's something I would like to discuss with you, I think," he says slowly.

And, just before he can bring up Edmund's letter and ask her about it, a cry comes from the medical tent.

"No!"

"That's Lady Sybil," Elsie gasps, already dashing off to the tent, Charles but three paces behind her.

When they arrive, the young woman is openly weeping, clutching Major Clarkson's arm.

"Milady, whatever is it?" Elsie asks, taking the young woman's hand.

"It's Matthew, Mrs. Hughes," Sybil replies. "And William." A fresh wave of tears spills out from her eyes. "They're missing."

Elsie turns to Charles, sees his trembling increase just before he tucks his hand behind his back, and gives a gentle, silent nod, asking him to give them some privacy.

He complies, his heart filling with compassion for the women before him - now both clearly distraught - and his mind wondering how he'll ever manage to counsel either of them through the deaths of Captain Crawley and William Mason should it ever come to that.

 _ **Just you and me**_

 _ **on my island of hope**_

 _ **a breath between us could be miles …**_

 _ **Let me surround you**_

 _ **my sea to your shore**_

 _ **let me be the calm you seek ...**_

Charles walks determinedly, his legs not able to carry him away from the camp fast enough. It is all too much, the thought of Captain Crawley and Private Mason ( _William,_ his mind whispers in a Scottish brogue) missing. Dozens of men _had_ returned, most dead, and the bodies are neatly lined up in row upon row. They're of all different sizes, the blood seeping through the stained sheets that cover them ... stains that never seem to wash out despite hours of scrubbing 'til the nurses' hands are raw.

He looks at his own hands. They're trembling furiously now - _he's_ furious - and his heart breaks at the sight of his body failing him so miserably. He's been able to keep his affliction a secret for so very long, from everyone, he thinks, save perhaps the Major and Mrs. Hughes - but now it'll be everywhere. They'll all know, because surely Lady Sybil and the nearby nurse noticed.

He knows that Mrs. Hughes is likely only steps behind him. He realizes there isn't any hope that she didn't notice his abrupt departure from the camp, not a chance that she thought he merely went back to his tent.

He stops suddenly, in the middle of the field, and turns; sure enough, she's off in the distance but running fast after him. The sound of the blood pounding in his ears is the only reason he can't hear her footsteps as her legs and feet brush against the grassy landscape. But it's the look on her face as she approaches that makes his wall come crashing down at last.

He's spent the past weeks trying to find a way out of the conundrum in which he finds himself whenever she's around. He loves her - that much he's come to terms with - but it's a complicated thing. He's been in love before, but not like this.

He comes to a decision, and it's _vastly_ different from the one he made only an hour before.

His flock out here on the fields of war are different than the crowds that would appear before him on Sunday mornings, but it's all the same in the end. He's been called to care for them, one and all, and while he knows that does not preclude him from having a wife, he can't possibly see a way to dedicate himself fully to two different loves at once.

And Charles Carson never does anything by halves.

He ponders her as she rushes toward him, thinks of how she runs the Abbey back in Downton, how they're both in service, but different types. The similarities run deep, however, the caregiving and the self-reliance needed, the independent loneliness that's characteristic of both their chosen paths. He's loath to give his path up, feels it's been his duty and calling and that the church is the thing that saved him all those years ago when he was adrift, nearly drowning in despair.

But he wonders now if the thing he _really_ needed wasn't the isolation of the priesthood at all, but rather the companionship of a woman who truly understands him.

 _ **Every time I'm close to you**_

 _ **There's too much I can't say,**_

 _ **And you just walk away ...**_

She's _terrified._ Terrified for him, terrified at what the day has brought; terrified, too, for William, whom the chaplain knows has a special place in her heart. But she also carries a secret that she's not told him of yet, but one which she must confide in him now, _tonight._

There must be no more secrets between them … not anymore. Not now that she realizes she's in love with him.

Her one regret is that it took her so long to figure it out.

She tried to ignore the little thump in her heart the first time she saw him in the hospital tent, attributing it to first-day jitters and the overwhelming atmosphere of the tent - hell, of the war itself, really. Jumping from Downton, with its protective walls and its rules into a melee of chaos has been jarring to say the least. And over the past few months, she's come to learn that _he_ is what provides a steady hand to countless men who find themselves adrift, washed up, unsure, and afraid. She's certain he'd be shocked to hear that _she_ finds _him_ a steadying presence, not after the way their friendship has evolved, but there it is.

They've crafted a deep caring of one another, one built up over cups of precious tea and half hours spent away from the fray, moments she knows would be questioned in their normal lives. But here, amidst the falling of artillery shells and the agonized screams of dying and injured soldiers, the fact that the chaplain and a nurse spend time privately discussing books and London is far from scandalous. She'd be surprised to hear if anyone besides Thomas Barrow even realizes how much time she and Mr. Carson spend together.

Her steps slow as she approaches him; he's turned and is watching her now, his face a kaleidoscope of emotions she cannot quite identify, and she's about to add one more to the mix.

She takes a deep breath, lets it out, and then holds out to him the letter that's in her hand. She watches him take it from her, his brow furrowed, and read it.

When his eyes meet hers again, they're glistening, and that simple fact causes her own tears to fall at last.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Carson," she whispers. "I'm leaving. Tomorrow."

He stares at her, open-mouthed and incapable of speaking for the moment. He looks at the letter once again, scans the unfamiliar writing of Cora Crawley, and swallows down his emotion. He thought he had so much time, and the sudden knowledge that he has _none_ is almost too much to bear.

Almost.

She has pain written all over her face, and it's this which allows him to speak. He tugs at his shirt, stands a bit straighter.

"How long have you known?" he asks, his voice deceptively calm.

"Not long," she replies. "Before the business with the frame," she amends, "but not long."

Charles looks off over the fields, sees the roofs of the tents and the soldiers milling about. He can't possibly imagine the scene without her being a part of it.

She wipes quickly at the corner of her eye, then turns her head a bit to see what he's looking at. She's a feeling he means to say something else, but he's silent.

"May I ask you something?" she says, and he nods. "The day you came to see the soldier whose family lost their home. You weren't in uniform …"

The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. "I wondered if you'd have put it all together."

"Well, not all of it, really," she replies with honesty. "But I wondered at the time if you'd come back from elsewhere, and then it occurred to me it may have been that you _met_ someone, someplace that your uniform wouldn't have been prudent to wear."

"I didn't want him to take advantage," Charles tells her. "If he knew I had any sort of influence with the men, I mean. He was always sneaky, looking for … I didn't want that," he finishes weakly.

They're quiet, then a thought occurs to her. "You brought a bowler to a war?" She's smirking, and he laughs at her directness.

"Well, it was my father's," he admits. "Precious. A memory of who I was before all of this."

She nods slowly. "I can understand that."

His heart beats a little bit faster, and he would swear later that he could feel the weight of Edmund's letter in his pocket, its contents now unimportant.

"We need to discuss the frame, Mrs. Hughes."

She looks up and stares into his eyes; taking a chance, she takes a step closer to him. "It needed a new frame," she says. "The photograph. Your Alice, I presume?"

"Not mine," he says quickly.

"Not anymore," she reminds him. "But it's a wound on the surface of your heart, and it won't do to let it fester. You need to heal, Mr. Carson."

"It was a long time ago."

She takes a breath and lets it out slowly, then bites down a bit on her lip in thought. "It doesn't appear that the time matters, not from where I'm standing," she tells him. "Honor the good things about your memories, at least until the bad ones don't hurt anymore. Stitch up the wound."

The wind blows, and it lifts an errant curl from his forehead, depositing it back in a way that makes her smile softly, longing to reach out and fix it.

"I'll miss you, Mrs. Hughes. Very much. And it costs me nothing to say it."

"May I write to you?" she nearly whispers, wondering how she got the words out before losing her nerve.

The smile on his face is _everything_ to her in that moment, well worth the furious blushing of her cheeks.

"I think I'd like that very much, indeed."

 _ **And I forgot to tell you**_

 _ **I love you,**_

 _ **and the night's too long**_

 _ **and cold here without you.**_

 _ **I grieve in my condition,**_

 _ **for I cannot find the words to say I need you so ...**_

 _ **"I Love You," Sarah McLachlan**_

 **End Act I, as lovely Dani says. Please let me know what you thought. x**


	8. An Empty House

**A/N: Thanks so much to all of you who are reading and reviewing this story! I'm glad you enjoyed the last chapter (I hope you SAW it, as this website isn't doing a good job of sending out notifications when things are updated. Be sure you've read six and seven before you read this one or you'll be very confused.)**

 **Music from the lovely Joe Jencks, of course. Wouldn't be one of my songfics without him.**

 **xxx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **Some measure life by their losses and gains,**_

 _ **For them there is never enough.**_

 _ **But I measure life by the hearts I have known**_

 _ **For I've given myself to love.**_

" _ **Given Myself to Love," Joe Jencks**_

 _ **August, 1918**_

The sound of the train as it whisks them all home is an assault to everyone's ears. Men and women alike who had been accustomed to the quiet of the front during the times they weren't under attack now find it hard to even nod off thanks to the steady hum of steel on steel, broken up at times by a tunnel, perhaps, or the whistles when they pass through various towns.

Elsie had chosen to forego sleep on this leg of the journey anyhow. She'd managed a bit on the boat, when she and Lady Sybil had been assigned to a state room that locked from the inside. That lock was the only thing that kept the two of them feeling entirely safe on that ship, which was transporting almost entirely men … men who'd not seen their wives in over a year, in many cases, and who'd lived a lifetime of other experiences since then. Elsie had gotten a few solid hours of sleep, although she was aware that Lady Sybil had not, due to the rolling of the waves, and as they'd mounted the train steps and settled into seats, Elsie murmured something about keeping watch, and how the younger woman should have the window seat so as to have something to lean on.

Elsie smiles fondly now as Lady Sybil's head rests heavily on her shoulder instead, clearly having chosen the soft comfort of a trusted friend.

 _And isn't that what we are, almost? Trusted_ _friends?_ Elsie thinks, because after the months full of horrors they've just shared, how can they be anything else? It's not going to fit easily into their separate lives at Downton, and she wonders if it'll be awkward. But now, as the wheels of the train drive them toward warmth, the comfort of their beds, and meals they can count on, Elsie can't find it in her to worry about it too much.

The younger woman stirs, murmurs something in her sleep, something that makes Elsie's cheeks grow pink.

 _Tom._

She'd suspected, of course, prior to their having left Downton for parts relatively unknown. There had been a rumbling below stairs about the new chauffeur, something Elsie had chalked up to typical idle gossip before she'd replied with a stern look of the eye to match her voice, sending them all on their way to complete the day's chores.

 _Even gossip sometimes carries the truth,_ she tells herself now.

Her companion shifts once again and rolls her head toward the window. Elsie stretches out her arm, now tingling from not having been moved in two hours, and flexes her fingers.

She turns and looks at Lady Sybil, at her full lips, the flush of her cheek, the fullness of her dark locks, and a smile plays at the corners of her mouth as she imagines what Charles would think if she told him of her suspicions.

 _Charles._

She feels an invisible cord tighten painfully around her heart as she realizes she's thought of him in such personal terms in the back of her mind for more time than she's willing to acknowledge.

The train pulls into the station at Ripon, and Elsie nudges her companion awake.

"Mrs. Hughes?" Sybil murmurs, her voice thick with sleep.

"We're here, Milady," Elsie replies, the familiar title rolling so easily off her tongue as she rises and smooths her skirt. "Do you need a moment?"

"No, I'm fine. I can't wait to be back at Downton."

Elsie sees a light in the her eye, something akin to the glimmer Elsie's sure _she_ had back on the front, one that would sparkle and shine through the steam flowing up from a cup of tea.

"It'll be good to be home," Elsie agrees.

And with that, the housekeeper descends from the train, leaving all traces of the nurse behind.

 **oOoOoOo**

It would appear, Elsie thinks as she sets her small bag in her bedroom, that she's arrived just in time. She looks longingly in her bed, already set on an early bedtime and a solid eight hours of sleep, before hurrying downstairs once again.

She pops into the kitchen first, where a rather nervous Beryl Patmore draws her into a _very_ unexpected embrace before practically pushing her away and dashing over to move a pot in danger of boiling over.

"Am I glad to see you!" Beryl exclaims.

"That bad?" Elsie asks, but she already knows it is. Anna has dark circles under her eyes that Elsie doesn't think have anything to do with _good_ reasons for a new wife to be tired; Mr. Molesley looks about ready to collapse and is muttering under his breath, and everyone else is running to and fro.

"Special menus for the soldiers," the cook says. "One food allergy, which is fine. Two on soft food only. The others are alright, I suppose, but then some of them leave in a week and a new group will arrive." She moves another pot, stirs it, and puts on the lid before turning her attention back to Elsie. "It's a wonderful thing we're doing, Mrs. Hughes, and I don't mean to complain and sound otherwise. But _they're_ at one another's throats," she confides quietly, her eyes glancing up at the ceiling and then back again, "and it's _not helping."_

"The girls?"

"No," Beryl replies, shaking her head. "Mrs. Crawley and Lady Grantham."

 _Ah._

"I'm glad you said," Elsie says, sipping quickly at the tea that had appeared before her. "I'm headed up there now to meet with her Ladyship."

"Well, mark my words, Mrs. Crawley will be there, too," Beryl advises. "And they won't agree on a bloody thing!"

Elsie takes a deep breath and then another sip of tea.

"Well," she says with more confidence than she feels, "I suppose that's why I was summoned back so quickly."

"And not a moment too soon," Beryl replies.

Elsie silently disagrees, thinking one more day would have suited her just fine. Somehow, if she'd had that time, she feels her life may have taken a drastically different turn.

 **oOoOoOo**

 _Mrs. Patmore wasn't kidding._

Elsie plops down in her chair, sitting room door firmly closed in order to steal a few precious moments of silence before bed. It's just gone ten, and she's practically dead on her feet.

She examines the room, wondering how it could possibly be that she could inhabit it for years as her personal office and then forget some of its details after a mere few months of volunteering on the front. But the object on which her gaze settles isn't one of the things she'd forgotten.

The scarecrow sits on the small shelf by her desk. She can almost reach it from where she sits, and she's contemplating packing it away. It doesn't seem to hold the same value it once did, and she's not foolish enough to deny why: It's _Joe_ that doesn't hold the value he once did - or, rather, the fact that he wanted her as his wife, not once but _twice,_ doesn't matter to her as much now as it once did.

Sipping her tea, she continues to look around the room: books, small pictures, ledgers, a few trinkets here and there - some not even her own. It's a meagre assortment of things that sum up her life and interests. Oh, there's the job, of course. There's always her job, and she's grateful for it. It's something she'd miss, she supposes, if she ever gave it up.

But then she realizes it's the _people_ she'd miss and not the tasks she does.

With a sigh, she laughs harshly at herself. She's just _been_ away from it all, hasn't she? She knows very well how much she missed them all when she was gone, and it was a great deal, indeed.

 _But you miss Mr. Carson more,_ a small voice whispers through her mind. _Charles._

As she realizes the truth in the words, her heart stills. It's so clear to her now that she's no longer in a place where he will be involved in her daily activities; he simply won't figure into how she spends each day. It's not even been a week, and she misses his presence in her life quite painfully, indeed.

Elsie sets the teacup down gently and walks over to where the scarecrow resides. She takes him from the shelf and examines him a bit, her finger trailing over his wee hat. Memories fill her thoughts; they aren't of the fair where Joe won it, though, but from their long-ago courtship: kisses behind the old oak by the cemetery, words in Joe's soft voice that spoke of another life, hands placed gently on her hip and at the small of her back, full of tenderness and a clear desire for _more._ She nibbles her lip, thinking back, remembering how _nice_ it was having someone interested in her for _herself,_ although she'd be fooling herself if she thought Joe's interest didn't also include the simple fact that she knew how to survive in that life he was offering. But he was warm, kind, and clearly loved her then.

It's with something of a jolt that she realizes why her thoughts are all mired in what she thinks of as the 'old Joe' as opposed to the 'new Joe.' He's the same man, of course, but she is very much _not_ the same woman. The 'old Elsie' _was_ that farm girl, the one who could have been content in a marriage to a man who worked his days away providing for a family and then warmed her bed - and her body - at night. And she'd have taken that life he'd offered were it not for Becky.

But she knows that while she cared about Joe, and in some ways still does, she wasn't in love with him. Seeing him the second time around showed her that. And the love that had shone in his eyes when he'd spoken to her of Ivy? He'd never looked at Elsie that way, not really. She can see it all clear as day now, because the day she told Mr. Carson she was leaving, she saw in _his_ eyes all that had ever been missing from Joe's.

And now it's Mr. Carson's hands she wishes to feel on her hips, _his_ lips pressed insistently against hers, pulling her closer with a clear desire for something more.

 _Charles._

 _Of all the foolish things,_ she can't help but think. She's no young lass anymore, neither in mind nor in body, and Mr. Carson certainly has a full life, with an important calling and what she suspects will be excellent prospects if this war ever ends.

She'd do well to remember that.

With a gentle kiss to its forehead, Elsie tucks the scarecrow away in the back of her deepest desk drawer, then rearranges the items on the shelf so she won't notice its absence. Then, with a glance at the clock to verify she's got a bit of free time, she sits at the desk again and pulls out two sheets of stationery and her best fountain pen.

 _Dear Mr. Carson,_ she begins. _How strange that I've returned to a house so full of activity and people, yet feel that it's rather empty just now as I sit with my tea. I hope you're well …_

She smiles as she pens the words, putting them down to paper as she'd have said them to him were they face-to-face. She describes the Abbey, the challenge of setting up the parameters of the soldiers' care and catering to their special needs, and more. It's not a formal letter by any means, for she knows instinctively that even though she's moved on and he's still surrounded by soldiers and men and bombs and war, he's likely starved for a bit of friendly conversation, and she's determined to provide just that. It's all she has to give, and it's all he's able to take from her.

 _Maybe,_ she thinks, _he can still be a part of your daily routine._

 **oOoOoOo**

Charles stands outside of Captain Crawley's tent. Shock fills him, along with a new layer of dread that he hadn't originally felt upon hearing that the Captain and William Mason were missing in combat. He squeezes the item in his hand, memories tickling his mind …

" _Oh, but look at him! Carson, isn't he sweet?"_

" _I'm not so sure, Milady. He seems a bit … simple, don't you think?"_

" _No, I don't. I'm going to ask Papa if I might have him. He's small enough to cuddle when we're on the train."_

 _He watches her run off, then turns to the shopkeeper. "I'll take him," he says, reaching into his pocket. "But quickly, before she returns. It's her birthday next week."_

 _The shopkeeper nods, smiling._

Charles brushes his thumb over the stuffed dog's face, knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that it's the same one. There's no mystery as to how it ended up in the Captain's rucksack. The only question now is why he's also stumbled upon a small photograph of a woman who is clearly _not_ Lady Mary Crawley.

"Padre! Letter just arrived for you!"

A small envelope is shoved into his hand by a soldier who's virtually running past him on his way to the mess tent. It _is_ dinner time, after all.

The chaplain ducks back inside the hot tent to put the dog back in the rucksack where it belongs. He tucks his thumb under the envelope's flap as he's exiting that tent and returning to his own quarters. He'd originally thought he might savor any letters she sent him, might wait until he was tucked away safely in his bed at night in order to read them slowly, by the light of his lantern, but the force with which he _misses_ her is too great to deny.

 _Dear Mr. Carson,_ she writes, and his chest is tight as he reads her words, hearing them as if they were falling from her lips in her beautiful, soft Scottish brogue.

* * *

 _ **Hope you enjoyed it! Please leave a review if you're willing and able, and please consider opening an account if you normally review as a "guest" so that I can reply personally. xxx**_


	9. Extinguished

_**Winter lies before me**_

 _ **Now you're so far away.**_

 _ **In the darkness of my dreaming**_

 _ **The light of you will stay ...**_

 _ **Late October, 1918**_

The hour is late, and the Abbey is quiet. Candlelight dances across the walls of the small room, mingling with the light from the small tabletop lamp by the bedside and the flames from the fire. The only sounds that can be heard are the scratching of the pen's tip against the paper, the crackling of the logs, and an occasional heavy sigh from the housekeeper seated at her desk.

 _Dear Mr. Carson,_

 _I thank you for your last two letters, and as I sit to write this I realize that I have no sufficient reply to many of your words. I thought I realized how very comfortable my life at Downton was once I arrived on the fields of France, but it was not until I was back here once again - home, safe, dry, and warm - that I truly absorbed all of what that means. It pains me to read of the difficulties you're facing with the never-ending rain, which we both know is a harbinger of disease and, ironically, uncleanliness in the camp. Were I capable, I'd be knitting and sending you clean, dry socks and gloves, but alas my skills are poorly suited to it. I remember your meticulous nature, and I hope it serves to keep you as safe and dry as possible as the trenches continue to fill. I pray for an end of it all - the war, of course, but also the maddening rainfall._

 _You've asked me to tell you of mundane things, of how life is going on away from the front, and so I shall continue to do so. Mr. Barrow's return was difficult, as I am sure you anticipated it would be. You'd alluded in your last letter to his inability to cope with the war, and I must say that I'm a bit surprised to find him returned injured in such a peculiar way. No matter; injured is injured, and he's a lucky man, indeed. Were we not a country at war with so many men away in the fighting of it, he'd have been let go by his Lordship, unable to perform his work. As it stands now, once he's recovered, Lord Grantham will be making provisions for him to return to under butler status and duties as his injury allows. It would have been unheard of even five years ago, but we're a different country now, aren't we? And have no fear - your suspicions about him are safe with me. I share them, I'll have you know - and that is a secret that you and I will take to our graves._

 _Lady Mary continues to be called upon by the odious Mr. Carlisle, I'm afraid. I know of your affection for her, and while I do not share such a fondness for her myself, I wish someone would talk some sense into her. He is unkind, plain and simple, and she deserves better. If only Mr. Crawley were here. I hold no ill will toward his intended, the lovely Miss Swire, but I do believe that Lady Mary would at least_ _listen_ _to Mr. Crawley's opinion of Mr. Carlisle, and perhaps even be swayed by it._

 _I send kind regards in this letter from Mrs. Patmore, along with a small gift that we hope will reach you safe and sound - and dry! She has been quite a good friend to me since my return, and while I rarely speak of my own emotion - and I daresay you understand_ _that_ _more than most! - I don't mind admitting that I'm appreciative of her concern. The day-to-day operation of the convalescent portion of Downton has truly been a struggle, an undertaking of gargantuan proportion that none of us expected it to become, and a kind cup of tea at the end of the day, a smile, and a friendly word are just what I find myself needing most of the time. I can see why you remember her fondly from years past. She, too, has good memories of your time here._

 _I must close this now, but will write again. Tomorrow will prove a very full day, but I'll have a bit more time at the weekend._

 _Until then, I remain your friend,_

 _Elsie Hughes_

 _ **If I could be close beside you**_

 _ **If I could be where you are**_

 _ **If I could reach out and touch you**_

 _ **And bring you back home ...**_

Charles reads the letter for the fourth time that night, his eyes dancing over the small flourish of the _H_ in her name before his lamp snuffs itself out, the wick run down at last. He reaches his other hand over toward the small side table, where he can feel the tin of tea that they somehow managed to send for him to enjoy. _A small gift,_ Mrs. Hughes wrote on the note.

Not in a mood to place a new wick in the lamp, he lights a candle instead, struggling a bit with the match before the flame takes, and ponders the thoughtfulness behind the gift.

When morning comes, he'll compose his letter of reply. He wonders if he should tell her that there are rumblings of an end to it all. Or perhaps he might ask if she's heard the same, if she was perhaps afraid to tell him and get his hopes up about being able to finally return home.

He sets the letter aside, pulls his prayer book close, and his deep voice fills the tent. He can barely see the words in the weak light, not that he needs to. But the book is a comfort to him, the feel of the paper on his skin, even though the ink is darkening his fingertips once again as the cold rain pours down outside the tent.

 **oOoOoOo**

Days go by, then a full week, then nearly two, but Elsie receives no more mail from Charles. She can hardly mention it to anyone, not unless she wishes to draw attention to herself and curiosity beyond what's already present; the housekeeper went from receiving one letter every month or so from Becky to daily missives since returning from France. Thomas Barrow has already made snide remarks, and she doesn't need any more of those.

Just as she's wondering if the afternoon mail might bring different news, Thomas himself enters the servants' hall … along with Mr. Molesley.

"We … We have an announcement." Mr. Molesley is pale, and Elsie's first thought is _This won't be good news._

"Mr. Crawley and William Mason have been found," Thomas adds. "Thanks to some assistance from the Dowager Countess, they're both being brought back to Downton, to convalesce here as opposed to with strangers."

A quiet sigh of relief and happiness passes over the table, and Elsie catches Anna's eye and smiles.

"They will be here within the week. In addition, Miss Swire and Mr. Crawley will begin planning their wedding," Mr. Molesley tells them. "And, when Mr. Crawley is well enough to return to Crawley House … and, eventually, to his own home with Miss Swire … I'll be accompanying him."

 _This_ announcement brings complete and utter silence, and as she scans the younger staff members' faces, Elsie realizes she is perhaps the only person present who isn't surprised by this news.

She glances over at the current butler, at the way his eyes are darting between the tabletop, floor, and her own eyes, but not focusing on anyone else. Anxiety is pouring off of him in waves, and while she attributes that to a variety of things in the man's life, the under butler standing just to his left is perhaps the biggest cause. Ever since Thomas's return, things have been … tense. Lady Grantham confided in Elsie just last week that once Thomas's hand injury was healed, her husband was considering allowing the man to serve at table despite the special glove his injury would require him to wear.

She realizes now that it's not a big jump, then, to promote him all the way up. It's just one more way in which their post-war lives will be full of happenings never even dreamed of before it all.

"I am certain we will make that as smooth a transition as possible," Elsie says kindly, looking both men in the eye. "In the meantime, I suggest we eat before the bells begin ringing again."

"Just so," Mr. Molesley nods, grateful. "You may all be seated," he adds, and Elsie notices - as usual - a few smirks at the tone of his declaration. The words and manner do not match his personality, something that Elsie now ponders as symbolic of his entire short tenure as butler.

Her gaze lands on Thomas, and she wonders if he will be any improvement at all.

It's not until halfway through their meal, as Elsie is shifting in her seat and reaches down to smooth her skirt, that her heart sinks once again at the empty pocket of her dress, and the sharp reminder that it had taken her so little time to get used to it containing a letter or two written in a usually, but not always, steady hand.

And it's not until their pudding is served that she flashes back to that last day she saw Mr. Carson - _Charles_ \- and how his trembling fingers brushed a soft, stray lock of hair from her cheek as the wind blew around them where they stood.

 _ **Is there a way I can find you**_

 _ **Is there a sign I should know**_

 _ **Is there a road I can follow**_

 _ **To bring you back home … to me?**_

" _ **If I Could Be Where You Are," Enya**_

* * *

 **A/N: This chapter was SO hard to complete, and I'm still not sure I'm satisfied with it. But I have other places to get to and didn't want to be bogged down in the non-Chelsie storylines.**  
 **Please leave a review and let me know what you thought. :)**

 **xx**

 **CSotA**


	10. Avalanche

**A/N: Song choice kudos go to my daughter, who shared this one with me after encountering it in her own fandom's fic (Camren, not Chelsie). It could NOT be more perfect. Please listen to it - it's easily found online. I've used most of it, intentionally overlapping some of the lyrics.**

 **My thanks to you all for your continued support. Please drop me a review and let me know what you think! I can say without reservation that this will go down as one of my top ten favorite chapters to have written … ever. Especially the second section.**

 **I hope you enjoy it.**

 **xxx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **You are the avalanche**_

 _ **One world away**_

 _ **My make-believing**_

 _ **While I'm wide awake**_

 _ **Just a trick of light**_

 _ **To bring me back around again ...**_

 _ **11 November, 1918**_

Elsie settles in beside Thomas Barrow as their maids and footmen file in, each one taking his or her place along the center of the great hall. Across from them stand the soldiers, save for Mr. Crawley, who is seated in his wheeled chair. Elsie's eyes scan their faces and she sees myriad expressions: some are impassive, all seem proud, and a couple seem a bit unsure as to whether or not they _belong_ there.

The butler stiffens beside her, and she's standing close enough to smell his cologne. It's sharp, not terribly offensive, but a bit too exotic for her taste. If she holds her breath and stares straight ahead, she can imagine that it's Mr. Carson standing beside her and not Thomas Barrow.

She does not close her eyes, but she withdraws into her mind for a few seconds, remembering each and every thing she can about the chaplain: his height, his domineering presence, the scent of _him_ \- nothing exotic, but something made up of smoke and tea and fresh air.

There's a wobble in the rays of sunlight streaming into the hall, as if a leaf blew through them; for half a second, she imagines she can feel Mr. Carson's presence. It occurs to her that _he_ should be here, too, acknowledging the end of the war during which he served countless men with superior dedication, one of whom now stands just next to her, and she hopes he's _somewhere_ doing just that.

She glances at Mr. Barrow, at the carefully controlled expression on his face. It isn't that different from how he used to present himself before the war, but now there is more emotion in his eyes. She's discovered over the past few weeks that this emotion boils at times, simmers at others, and she is trying to get used to this, to find the right way to measure her words and deeds accordingly. As butlers go, he's efficient and knowledgeable about everything except the wine, and he's making a bit of progress in that area as well. She recalls saying that to him months ago in the hospital tent, that he'd make a good butler in most ways.

Lord Grantham enters the room, and Elsie trains her gaze on the wall just over one soldier's shoulder as he begins to speak.

"I think while the clock strikes, we should all make a sign of prayer to mark the finish of this terrible war, and what that means for each and every one of us."

His words sound clear and assured in the sombre atmosphere. Elsie's hand is beginning to sweat, and she resists the attempt to wipe it against her skirt.

"Let us remember the sacrifices that have been made, and the men who will never come back, and give them our thanks."

The chimes of the clock are perfectly aligned with his words, and the deep clang of each one echoes in the hall. Upon the first chime, everyone stands at firm attention, and Elsie reflects back on his Lordship's words, her only distraction an occasional sniffle from Mrs. Patmore, who is no doubt remembering and missing her nephew, Archie.

… _the men who will never come back …_

Her heart clenches at those words, and she feels near to suffocating. As the third chime rings out, Elsie begins praying for the one man she hopes, above all else, _will_ return.

When the eleventh chime has sounded, the staff and soldiers disperse. Elsie hears the others' voices, but nothing they're murmuring about matters much to her at that moment. She wonders if Mr. Carson is home from the front yet, wonders if he's received any of her letters, and wonders if he'll be returning to parish priesthood or moving on to some other opportunity. She'd asked him, but she'd never gotten a reply. Still, she has no reason to question whether or not he'd truly end up in or near Yorkshire as he'd planned.

She reminds herself as she descends the stairs that Mr. Carson and Lord Grantham have a mutual respect, even fondness, between them. Surely if something had happened, something tragic, then the family would have been told.

It's the hope she keeps tucked down in her heart when she feels buried beneath it all, the weight of the not knowing worse than any pain or discomfort she'd experienced while serving her own brief time in the war.

 _ **Just a trick of light**_

 _ **To bring me back around again**_

 _ **Those wild eyes**_

 _ **A psychedelic silhouette**_

 _ **I never meant to fall for you but I**_

 _ **Was buried underneath and**_

 _ **All that I could see was white**_

 _ **My salvation**_

 _ **My, my ...**_

 _ **18 November, 1918**_

Charles struggles to fasten the final button of his cassock. He'd made it through two dozen before his hands began to tremble, and it's a small-but-proud victory knowing he's managed it, given his current state of anxiety.

 _Three days back in England,_ he thinks as he reaches for the simple stole that will complete his habit, _and today begins a new life._ _Or rather an old one, begun again._

One final check in the small looking glass assures him that everything is placed as it should be, and he makes his way across the small courtyard to the side door of the church. The wind has picked up these past few hours, and as he ducks through the door and closes it firmly, he absentmindedly brushes back the stubborn curl on his forehead.

The closing of the door instantly shuts off all noise from the blowing wind, casting the sanctuary into silence. His footsteps echo through the stone building as Charles crosses the wooden floor, his eyes looking downward so as to not trip over the hem of his vestments. The robe is unfamiliar to him now after so many months in the snug fit of the Army chaplain's uniform, with trousers cut to the proper length as opposed to fabric that rustles around his legs uncomfortably. He feels nearly swallowed up by the robe, something that gives him pause and makes him remember countless days spent as a young parishioner in pews very like the ones before him now, days when he felt the vestiture made the man who wore it into something imposing, wise and in control.

Looking for some comfort, for a way to fortify his strength before properly starting his first day under Edmund's guidance, Charles walks determinedly in the direction of the altar. He turns to face the cross, bows his head, and slips into the front pew, holding fast to the polished wood as he kneels in prayer.

The words do not come easily, a fact which only serves to increase his level of anxiety, and he forces his wandering mind to learned recitations he could do in his sleep. He remembers the priest who most recently served this parish, and as his lips curl around each syllable, his heart settles into a familiar, peaceful place. His voice moves from faint mumbling to a more powerful tone, although measured; Charles has long been aware of the depth and strength of his deep, bellowing voice, and controlling it once again is a bit of an effort - yet another contrast to the many months he spent on the front, when a loud voice was necessary at times in order to subdue chaos, to encourage people onward, and - in the end - even to lead.

But here, that louder voice is not needed, his words a conversation with God that no one else needs to hear.

He stands with some effort, allowing the blood to return to his knees before sitting in the pew, and his gaze travels over the details of the blessed worship space. The bright, white sun is pouring through the east window, breaking though in a kaleidoscope of colors that are cast onto the floor. Charles notices specks of dust floating in the air, changing color as they travel through light that is red, green, gold, and blue.

 _Blue …_

He looks up at the fourth window from the end, sees a fractured sea of blues and greens, and his heart tightens in his chest.

Charles had not heard Edmund approach him, had not even realized that the older priest had been in the rear of the sanctuary all along, watching as Charles entered and knelt and prayed. The hand to his shoulder startles him, and it is only when he turns to his left, tips his head back a bit to look his oldest friend in the eyes, that he realizes his own are filled with tears.

"Charles, my old friend." Edmund's voice is soft, steady, and understanding. "Budge over a bit, hm?"

Charles obeys, shuffling down the pew and leaving enough space for his friend to sit beside him.

Edmund weaves his fingers together loosely and rests his hands in his lap as and looks up at the windows, at the altar.

"It is beautiful, isn't it?" he breathes.

Charles nods, unaware of how his left hand trembles slightly as it rests on his knee. "It is. I look around this church and can imagine the love, the devotion, and the faith that went into laying each stone, into smoothing each wooden plank or setting each piece of glass." He turns to face Edmund. "I hope to make you proud here, taking over for your friend. God rest his soul."

"I know that is your intention." Edmund turns to face his friend. "But - you'll forgive me, Charles, for saying so, but this place will never be _home,_ will it? Not to you."

Charles feels gooseflesh break out on his arms. "Why would you say that?" he asks slowly.

His friend smiles sadly. "Because I've known you for over half your life, you daft man. You're anguished, and it's written all over your face. I'd thought being back here might bring you a sense of the familiar, a sense of _peace._ But I no longer think that the Church can provide the peace you require."

There's a lump in Charles's throat that he swallows, albeit with some difficulty. "It is where I belong."

"Is it? Are you so sure?"

The silence lasts so long between them that Edmund isn't sure he'll receive an answer.

"Well ... It _was,_ " Charles whispers at last. "But you know me better than anyone, don't you?"

Edmund shrugs.

"I tried so very hard, Edmund. I sat with countless men, gave so many last rites and so many blessings and prayers, said the words so many times that I've forgotten how many days I was gone." He turns to his companion. "I have them all written down, you know. Every name, every soldier whose hand I clasped in my own as he breathed his last."

"I have no doubt of that," Edmund replies, and he reaches over and pats the back of Charles's hand. "But that is not what weighs on you most heavily."

A gruff sort of laugh escapes Charles's mouth. "No."

The wind blows fiercely, and a branch rustles against the wall outside the door.

"How is she called, then, your Mrs. Hughes?" Edmund asks. "You never did say in all the times you wrote of her."

"I didn't write of her all _that_ often." He licks his lips. "And she's hardly _mine."_

"In every other letter, at least, she is mentioned," Edmund reminds him.

"Hmph."

Edmund sighs, a long, deep breath in and an even longer exhalation.

"Have you considered, Charles, that you may have made the wrong decision in accepting my offer of the post here?"

Charles doesn't know what to say, but his shock is evident.

"I wasn't going to say it, you know, because God knows - he _really does_ \- how much I'm enjoying my retirement," Edmund says. "But I'm beginning to think that I might be convinced to settle here myself. Temporarily, mind you. See it through until somebody else can be found so that you might follow your true path."

"It was not my original intention, coming here," Charles admits. "But then, well, circumstances changed and I reconsidered."

"They can change again," Edmund offers.

"Edmund," Charles chides. "Who am I to turn down the opportunity to be of service in a place such as this, to a community that has so many in need? Not to mention that to put that back on you would be most unkind."

"At the risk of sounding terribly Calvinist," Edmund replies with mirth, and he sweeps his hand in a gesture to show off the interior of the church, "what if all of _this_ is not God's purpose for you?"

Charles's prodigious brow furrows. "Whyever not? Life's _greatest_ purpose is to serve, Edmund. Surely you aren't denying me the privilege of serving God?"

"Oh, Charles," Edmund whispers. "Life's greatest purpose isn't _service."_ He reaches over and taps his friend's hand once again, letting his own on top of it, quelling the tremors. "It's _love._ It's the ability to see into another person's heart, to touch their soul in a way that no one else can."

Charles mulls over that thought, glancing at his friend, who nods slowly as Charles begins to accept his words.

Charles eventually looks up at the windows again. The light has shifted, but what he seeks is still present.

"Do you see the blue, just below the head of the knight?" he asks, and Edmund nods. "See where it blends with the green from the trees, that small sliver of glass that is neither of those different colors, but rather a blending of them both, the deep blue tinged with green?"

"I do."

Charles smiles softly. "It's the color of her eyes in the sunshine, when she's calm," he breathes. "When she's not about to tear the hide off of someone for not preparing a cot properly, when she's not overcome with fatigue or frustrated with the Sisters for not listening to a soldier's pleas."

"Those moods offer different hues, do they?" Edmund asks with a knowing smile and a quirk of his own eyebrows.

"They do," Charles confirms instantly. "Bluer, sometimes, or tinted with grey."

They're silent again for several moments, and it occurs to Charles that he's only ever shared this comfortable type of silence with two people in his entire life.

"I'll need a week," Edmund declares. "Of your assistance, I mean. And if I cannot find a suitable replacement then I'll simply slide into the position myself until one presents himself."

"I cannot ask that of you."

"You aren't asking," Edmund says with a patient sigh. "I'm insisting. But this congregation deserves a leader who can give his _entire_ heart to them, and yours is rather full of other things."

Charles nods, his mind back on the letter that sits atop his desk, the one he'd received just yesterday - the only one _not_ from Elsie Hughes.

"Come on," Edmund says, rising from the pew. "I'll have the cook put together something to eat, and we'll sit and work out the details."

Charles casts one last look at the window and smiles as he joins his friend. They walk side by side down the main aisle, the one by which Edmund had entered earlier, just before Charles crept in through the side door.

"Elsie," Charles says, the syllables falling from his mouth in an altogether different type of prayer. "Her name is Elsie."

 _ **My salvation**_

 _ **My, my ...**_

 _ **You are the snowstorm**_

 _ **I'm purified**_

 _ **The darkest fairy tale**_

 _ **In the dead of night …**_

 _ **21 November, 1918**_

Elsie can't sleep, and she makes her way downstairs for a hot cup of tea. She lifts the kettle in an exhausted daze, knowing she has another hour or so before she's joined by Mrs. Patmore. Her keys jingle against the iron of the aga as she leans forward to place the kettle, and the familiarity of the sound wakes her a bit more.

As she stands and watches the kettle, willing the water to boil, she feels her heart settle into something resembling happiness. Her lips curl into a smile as she thinks back to yesterday afternoon, to rushing through the corridor on her way up the stairs, only to nearly collide with Anna, who'd come tearing down them …

" _Mrs. Hughes! There you are!"_

 _Elsie grasped Anna firmly, pulling her aside. "Anna, whatever are you on about? You look as if you're about to burst!"_

" _I hope you have a moment," Anna said, offering her superior a small bundle. "The mail's just arrived."_

 _Elsie's heart dropped into her stomach as her breath caught in her chest. "What in the world …?" She reached out with trembling hands for the envelopes. "There must be two dozen here," she said._

" _Or more," Anna confirmed with a smile. She glanced at the clock that hung through the doorway. "The mail delivery must have been all a jumble as the end of the war neared, as the men were traveling to and fro."_

" _Yes." Elsie just stared at the letters, at the postmarks that confirmed they were all from Charles, written over the course of the past several weeks._

" _Look," Anna said. "It's nearly time to eat. Head on up, and I'll tell the others you've a headache. I'll come on up with a tray in about half an hour, alright?"_

 _Elsie finally tore her gaze from the letters and looked at Anna. "Thank you, Anna," she whispered tearfully, nodding. "I appreciate that more than you know."_

 _But Anna just smiled. "Oh, I think I understand," she murmured kindly. "Now, go."_

 _Elsie scurried up the stairs, her fingers brushing over the rough surface of the outermost envelopes, wondering where they'd been on their travels before finally,_ _ **finally**_ _reaching her hands …_

The kettle steams, and Elsie pours the water into the small teapot, which she brings into the servants' hall and sets on the table alongside her cup and saucer. Before sitting, she withdraws a single letter from her pocket, places it beside the saucer, and sits patiently as the tea steeps. She pours a cup just as a bright, white beam of sunlight pours in through the windows.

"Good morning, Mr. Carson," she whispers as she pries open the folded letter. She spent over half the night reading them all once, twice, three times … but this one, by far, is her favorite.

 _My dearest Mrs. Hughes,_

 _Thank you most kindly for your last two letters, the first of which I replied to despite the knowledge that it was unlikely to find its way to you. It's been over a dozen letters now in which you've mentioned having received nothing from me, and my heart is heavy with the knowledge that you're likely wondering if I've ceased writing them completely - or, worse, if I've not survived to see the day this war would end. However, I will continue to write you regularly, to reassure you that I am, indeed, alive and quite well, despite all that has happened in the past several weeks. One day, God willing, my words will find their way into your hands._

 _I was heartbroken to hear of your sister's passing. You were correct, you'd not mentioned before that you had a sister. But no matter, for there are lifetimes' worth of things we do not know of one another's pasts, a thought which I freely admit surprises me, for most times I feel few other people on this Earth know me as well as you've come to in the brief time of our acquaintance. I pray that her soul has found peace with God, and that your heart is soothed knowing that she is finally able to exist free of her earthly burdens. I've no siblings of my own, and so I don't pretend to fully understand your heartache, but were I able to share it please have no doubt that I would._

Elsie reaches for her tea, sips it tentatively before placing it back on the saucer, and wipes at her eyes like a child, cursing herself for having forgotten to tuck a handkerchief in her pocket.

 _I've just received a letter from Lord Grantham, who spoke of William Mason's passing. I knew of it, of course, from your own letters, but it touched me to realise that young William had made such an impression on the family. He wrote that Lady Mary, in particular, was fond of William. Did you know? I wondered if it was her idea that Lord Grantham himself would offer to walk Daisy to her intended on the day of their wedding, knowing the importance of having a father figure by her side. I confess to being rather annoyed that Sgt Barrow couldn't have offered to stand in that place, but perhaps he felt unqualified to do so having just become your new butler. Not knowing your Daisy, I'm unsure as to which she'd have preferred, although her focus was likely on having someone steady to guide her lest she fall._

 _I head off today for home, at long last. In case my last letters never do reach you, I will say here once again that I am returning to England to be installed at St Felix, in Thirsk, assuming the position vacated upon the Reverend Smythe's demise. It's an old, medieval place, one I'd had a chance to spend some time in years ago, and I look forward to seeing it once again, to running my hands along the outer edge of the basin and to meditating on the beauty of its windows and its simplicity._

 _I shall write once again once I arrive, but for now I must close this message to you in order that I can post it before boarding the first of several trains to bring us to the boats._

 _I wish you well, Mrs. Hughes._

 _I remain, your always faithful friend,_

 _Charles Carson_

She folds the paper and tucks it away quickly as Mrs. Patmore bustles into the kitchen. The cook is taken aback for a split second at the sight of the kettle, out of place from where she left it last night, but then she turns and peers into the servants' hall and meets the housekeeper's eyes.

"Up all night?" Her voice is soft and understanding, and there's a kindness in her eyes, and Elsie knows at once that Anna did not _quite_ keep the news of the letters a secret from everyone. "He's well, then, is he? Our Mr. Carson?"

"He is," Elsie says in reply. "And on his way home, which is evidently going to be Thirsk. Of course, he's probably there by now."

"Oh? So not very far, then. He's found a post?"

"Yes, one he's taking over as a favor to an old friend. He mentioned it to me once before, and he spoke with fondness of the community."

"Well, that's good," Mrs. Patmore says with a nod. "They're some of the last to get back to their real lives, I suppose. Although we're still living with the aftermath here, of course, and will be for some time to come."

Her voice wavers, and Elsie is reminded once again of Archie. "Every soldier's death was a sacrifice," she reminds her friend. "No matter how, or when, or where. And it's to the rest of us to move on ahead without them."

Mrs. Patmore nods again and then disappears into the kitchen. She'll knead her sorrow and frustration into loaves of bread as Elsie heads up to her room to put her precious letter in the drawer of her nightstand, atop all the others. There it will rest with what she feels is a precious piece of her heart … until later on tonight, when she can pull them out and read through them all one more time.

 _ **Let the band play out**_

 _ **As I'm making my way home again …**_

 _ **26 November, 1918**_

The priest and the lord sip at their whiskey in the dim light of the pub. The place is clean, well-kept, and while it's a popular gathering spot in Thirsk, the early afternoon hour has ensured that they have the small corner to themselves.

"You're certain, then?" Robert's eyes sparkle with happiness as he enquires this of his companion. "In a week's time?"

"I am," Charles replies. "I will say this, Milord … This has not been the easiest conversation to have."

Robert drains his glass in one long swallow, signaling the barkeep for another. "No, I'm sure hasn't. Affairs of the heart are never comfortably discussed between men. I've often wondered if women have it right in that regard, sharing confidences and helping one another out in that way."

Charles smirks. "I think marriage and the raising of daughters has made you a bit softer, if I may be so bold as to say it."

"You may," Robert laughs, "and I suppose it has, at that."

Two more glasses are set before them, and Charles's protestation goes unheard as he motions toward his own, still-half-full tumbler from before.

"I've got two more hours until the car will return for me," Robert explains. "And whilst Mrs. Patmore's cooking is sublime, I wouldn't say no to a good kidney pie."

"An excellent choice, here," Charles agrees, and he gets the barkeep's attention to order two of them.

They talk about trivial things for a while, as Robert's mind wanders and Charles asks about things like Mr. Crawley's upcoming nuptials and Lady Mary's close relationship with the odious Mr. Carlisle. He's surprised to find that Robert despises the man nearly as much as Elsie does, but that he's loath to do anything about it lest he interfere with a good prospect for his eldest child.

"You should speak from the heart, Milord," Charles advises. "There will likely come a time, and you'll know when it is. Then you must tell her your true feelings, else she may move forward along a path she _thinks_ is adhering to her father's wishes."

"Hm, you may be right." Robert sips at his drink, then turns the conversation back to where they began. "So Mrs. Hughes knows nothing of my offer?"

"No. I dared not mention it, given that my plan up until last week was to turn you down flat." He smiles. "But sometimes God works in mysterious ways. A friend suggested that your timing was impeccable, and I had to agree."

Robert reaches into his coat pocket and withdraws something, setting it on the table and pushing it across toward Charles.

 _Keys._

"It's the third cottage on the lane, somewhat secluded by a hedgerow," Robert says. "The gate sticks a bit, but I'm sure you'll manage." Charles begins to protest, but Robert ploughs ahead. "Cora's choice, so no arguments, Carson."

It's the sound of his name falling from Robert's lips that silences him: not Padre or Reverend or even Charles, but _Carson._

"I didn't expect all this," Charles mumbles, feeling an embarrassment tinge his cheeks with a pink that he hopes will remain invisible in the dark of the pub. "I never expected to be in this position. It began as a friendship, a bit of kindness …"

"Until it was more," Robert says, nodding. "I understand _that,_ you know. I can say this with certainty: if you end up with anything even close to what I've found with Cora, you'll be a lucky man, indeed."

"Do you think so?"

"I do." Robert pauses as their meals arrive. "We had married, of course, and began our lives together. But it was a financial necessity - that's no secret, and I don't deny it - and took a while for us to truly see into the heart of one another. But once we did? It was like an avalanche, really. Like I woke up one day and wondered when and how it all happened. It's been a struggle, sometimes, being married to such a strong spirit, but it's been well worth the effort."

Charles stares at his pie, then breaks into the crust and watches the steam erupt and expand in the air.

"Good to know," he says, and then a thought occurs to him. "Don't tell them, Milord. Please," he asks.

"My lips are sealed, and Cora would never ruin such a glorious surprise."

Charles smiles hesitantly, and Robert sees all the gratitude in his eyes.

"Thank you for the opportunity, and for not denying my request. Your letter couldn't have come at a better time."

"My wife would have had my hide if I denied you a thing in this endeavour," Robert answers truthfully. "But I've never seen you so happy, Carson. It's our pleasure to be able to do this for you. And it's not as if I'm not benefiting!"

"I do hope to be of great assistance," Charles agrees. He raises his fresh glass of whiskey, and Robert does the same. "With my gratitude," he says, clinking their glasses together.

"Best of luck to you, old chap," Robert replies, a twinkle in his eye. "Now, let's tuck in, shall we?"

 _ **My salvation**_

 _ **My, my ...**_

 _ **"Salvation," Gabrielle Aplin**_

* * *

 **St Felix, or Felixkirk, is an actual church in Thirsk, UK. My apologies to anyone who knows it personally, as I've altered what little information I could find (and incorporated some truths) in order to fit this story. x**


	11. Returning

**_Love let me down ..._**

 ** _So I tried to erase it, but the ink bled right through,_**

 ** _Almost drove myself crazy when these words led to you._**

 ** _And all these useless dreams of living alone._**

 ** _So come let me love you ..._**

 ** _First of December, 1918_**

The train arrives just ahead of schedule, and Charles hopes it's a sign of a very good, very lucky day ahead. He nods to the young man who's taken down his trunk and suitcase and obtained a small cart for them, and as he presses a coin into the man's hand, Charles thanks him aloud.

"New to the area?" The man's demeanor is cheerful, easygoing, and Charles finds himself smiling. It's only a second or two later, however, when it occurs to him to wonder: _How did this young man escape the war?_ Perhaps a lung issue, he muses, or perhaps he's the last son of the family.

"Not entirely," Charles replies. "But it's been a very long time since I was last here, so I _feel_ almost new."

"Well, I'd wager that won't last long. Not much changes in Downton as the years go by."

Their attention is drawn by a call from across the platform - a chauffeur, apparently waving at Charles, and so he bids the younger man goodbye and pushes the cart over to what he now assumes, given the look of it and the way that the green-liveried chauffeur seems to know him, is Lord Grantham's motor.

"You must be the Reverend," Tom says.

"Well, not anymore," Charles admits. "Just Mr. Carson now."

Tom holds out his hand. "Tom Branson, at your service."

Charles shakes his hand tentatively. "He really should not have sent a car," he adds, muttering. "I'd have managed just fine."

"His Lordship told me you'd say that," Tom answers, "and he told me that I am to ignore your protestations and instruct you to get in."

Charles sighs but does as he's asked.

"If it makes you feel better, I had to run into town anyhow." Tom shuts the door firmly and climbs behind the wheel.

"Only a bit."

They don't talk much on the way to the cottage, and Charles finds he's grateful for the chauffeur's quiet demeanor. He remembers brief mentions of the man from both Mrs. Hughes and Lady Sybil, but he can't quite recall what they were about, specifically. It doesn't matter, and he forgets about it completely as he watches the landscape go by out the window. The rolling hills and a smattering of sheep make him smile. There are few buildings that he doesn't recognize from his earlier days working at the Abbey, although he's sure that many of the families are onto a new generation by now.

 _Or not._

The sadness of the war still lingers within him, the loss of lives and the horrors of things he's seen, and it comes up behind him at the unlikeliest of times, grabs at his heart and clutches tightly for a while until it slowly fades in the background again, waiting ...

They turn down a small lane, and Charles sits up a bit straighter in the seat, looking out and spying his new home just down the lane. It's just as Lord Grantham had said, with the small hedgerow, perfectly trimmed. The cottage seems to have been waiting for his arrival.

"Here we are, Mr. Carson."

Tom opens the door for Charles and then retrieves and carries the trunk to the front step. But when he returns for the suitcase, he has to smirk at how Charles already has it in hand.

"I'm happy to bring those in for you," he says, but Charles declines.

"No, Mr. Branson, I won't keep you. I can manage with these just fine. But I thank you."

"You're welcome, Mr. Carson. I hope to see you again soon."

"I'm sure you will. Oh, and Mr. Branson? One more thing."

But Tom taps his finger over his lips. "Mum's the word, Mr. Carson. No one is to know you're in town."

Charles smiles, relieved. "Just so. I'll be up at the house soon, but I'd rather tell them myself. Only Mr. Barrow, his Lordship, and her Ladyship know for now. And you."

"Well, if Mr. Barrow knows, then you'd better make it quick." Tom smirks, and Charles knows instantly that Lord Grantham must have mentioned that Thomas and Charles had encountered one another on the front.

 _Or perhaps Mrs. Hughes did,_ he thinks, and then he blushes a bit at the knowledge that this is the second time he's thought of her in an hour.

"I'm afraid you're right, Mr. Branson. Thank you again."

Charles watches as Tom drives away before turning toward his cottage. He fishes his key from his coat pocket, his hand completely calm as he opens the door to his new life.

"It's … quiet," he mutters, looking around at the sparsely-furnished space.

He drags the trunk in and places it by the foot of the staircase, thinking he'll do better to carry the few items inside up in small armloads instead of bringing the entire thing up in one go. The suitcase, however, is another story, and Charles easily finds the bedroom and smiles at how that room, at least, seems to have some comforts of home: the bed is made, the windows curtained, and there are logs by the fire.

Back downstairs, he examines everything with a critical eye and realizes it may not be as empty as he'd initially suspected. There are curtains on the windows that face the road, and the fireplace is full and ready to be lit. A quick examination of the cupboard shows enough food for a day or two, and he's sure the larder is somewhat stocked with necessities as well.

After setting a few things out and hanging his coat, Charles manages to get the fire going in the hearth. He returns to the kitchen then, fires the stove and puts a kettle on for some tea.

Twenty minutes later, he's poured a relatively good cuppa and located some biscuits left in a tin. He tries out the small settee in the parlour, watching the flames dance in the fireplace as he empties both the plate and the cup without spilling a crumb or a drop.

So far, so good.

He washes the dishes afterward and puts away his few possessions, setting aside one shirt to be pressed as it didn't fare so well being folded and packed. He grumbles, the sound echoing in the bedroom, when he realizes that he'll surely need to manage that alone now, given that the woman who'd come in once a week to clean and to take out the washing certainly wouldn't be here in Downton doing the same.

That line of thinking only brings him back to the housekeeper once more, and his heart pounds once, then twice.

He reaches for his jacket and coat, putting both back on and wondering how long he really thought he'd stay away. Slipping a hand in the coat pocket, he feels for the envelope, the letter he's prepared to leave for Mrs. Hughes if, for some reason, she's not at the house today when he arrives. He's sure Mrs. Patmore will be there, though, and his spirits lift a bit more at the prospect of reconnecting with his old friend.

By the time he banks the fires and is locking the cottage, the sun is just beginning its descent in the winter sky.

 **oOoOoOo**

It's just gone past four in the afternoon, and Downton's housekeeper plops onto her chair with a loud sigh, the busy nature of the events both upstairs and down this week nearly overwhelming her. Her feet ache, and as she slips one shoe off and absentmindedly rubs the bottom of that foot against the toe of the other, massaging away a sore spot, she takes a deep, slow breath and lets it out again. She needs to stop for just a minute, sort her mind's contents in order to move through the rest of her day more efficiently. It's a feeling she often experienced during the war, but of course then _everything_ had been harried, frenetic, and fraught with its own exhaustion … although that was more fear-driven to be sure.

She had hoped to leave that feeling of having to work double-fast behind months ago. And while those endless weeks do in many ways seem so far away now, she knows that her present tiredness is more than valid. Things at Downton are speeding up instead of slowing down as one would have expected following the war, and goodness knows she's not getting any younger.

Her sitting room door creaks open, and she smiles faintly as Beryl Patmore bustles in with a tea tray.

"Thought you might need this," the redheaded woman says, and Elsie notes that her voice is softer, kinder lately. Or maybe that's from age, too, and shared experiences between them, knowledge of how post-war life is and of all the things it can bring.

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore," Elsie says, waving her hand at the empty chair by her desk when she notes there are two cups and saucers on the tray. She thinks perhaps her friend needs someone to sit with as well, five minutes of peace in a house that's been providing none.

Elsie slips her shoe back on, pushing her heel into place, and her head tilts a bit when she identifies Mrs. Patmore as her 'friend' in her mind.

She wonders when _that_ happened. There's no question about it, though.

"What's that, then?"

Beryl has noticed something, but she sees the housekeeper shake it away with a toss of her head and a soft laugh.

"Oh, don't mind me, Mrs. Patmore," she chuckles, reaching for the proffered cup. She takes a tentative sip, relishing the nearly-scalding heat of the liquid and its restorative properties. "Ahh, this is _exactly_ what I needed. How did you know?"

"A good cuppa solves most of life's problems, doesn't it?" the cook replies, taking her own seat. "Or at least, the small ones …"

"A great many of the _big_ ones are likely solved over the sharing of it as well," Elsie observes. "How's the menu coming along for the wedding?"

She doesn't miss the cook's roll of the eyes.

"Oh, it's fine," Beryl sighs. "Lord knows Miss Swire isn't terribly difficult. I think the challenge is more in getting her to _request_ something, to put her foot down and be a bit demanding. And Mr. Crawley is no help in that regard. He wants her to figure it all out on her own, to allow her to get used to it all, I suppose."

"Well, he's not wrong in his thinking there," Elsie answers. "She's in for some changes, make no mistake. Running a big house like this one day …" Settling back into her seat a bit, she sips the tea again and allows her mind to wander a bit. "Miss Swire," she adds eventually. "Who'd have thought?"

"Who, indeed?" Beryl clicks her tongue softly. "Do you think she has any idea how hard it'll really be, being his wife?"

Elsie looks at her almost sharply. "How do you mean?"

The cook blushes. "Oh, you know … It's not what was _meant_ to happen, now, is it? And now, with poor Mr. Crawley's condition, I mean. After all his Lordship went through with that awful entail business ..."

"That's not our concern, really. None of it." Elsie rests the cup and saucer on her desk and brushes at her skirt, fiddling with a stray piece of lint that's suddenly annoying her. "And they _do_ love one another," she adds quietly.

"Oh, I know," Beryl replies. "Anyone with half a brain can see that. I hope it's enough, though. Sometimes love isn't. Not in their world, anyhow."

Elsie's eyes are far away, staring down at the swirling fabric of her skirts … swirls that are becoming a sea of faces and places and voices … kind eyes, soft and gentle with the offer of a different life, suddenly sad … a small child who'd never be hers, blonde hair and a toothy smile … a sister's letter, opened in a rush as the war raged around them all … a deeper voice, kinder eyes, a brush of fingers across her cheek ...

"Nor ours," she whispers.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

Elsie inhales sharply, startled from her reverie. "Sorry," she mumbles. "Away with the fairies, I suppose."

Beryl, in an unusual turn of events, remains completely silent.

The knock at the door surprises them both, although Elsie is used to its muffled sound after all these years, and she and the cook both rise as Downton's butler enters the room.

"Mr. Barrow. What can I do for you?" Elsie asks.

"Might I have a word, Mrs. Hughes?" he asks, the tone of his voice indicating a hint of unusual concern. "It's rather important."

Elsie turns to Beryl, but the woman already has the tray in hand.

"High time I got back to work," she mumbles, nodding at the butler before heading out.

Thomas closes the door behind her then turns to face his housekeeper, who is now very grateful, indeed, for the fortification brought by the tea.

"What is it?" she asks tentatively. "Is something amiss upstairs?"

"No," Thomas replies. "Not upstairs." A pause. "I think you should sit down, Mrs. Hughes."

Elsie plops back into her chair without question. She sees more in his expression now than just concern, but she isn't sure what all of the feelings he's hiding are. He's a tricky one to read, sometimes, and she's not quite got the knack of it yet. But she knows whatever it is that he's about to drop in her lap is probably going to cause no amount of trouble in the house.

She sighs.

"Well, then," she tells him as he sits across from her. "Best get it out, Mr. Barrow, so that I can get on with my day."

He pauses, and suddenly she's worried. She files through them all in her mind …

There's a hubbub coming from down the corridor, and a quick glance tells Elsie that the hour is later than she remembered.

"You'll need to ring the gong soon," she reminds gently.

"We have a guest," Thomas tells her abruptly, and his head tilts in the general direction of the servants' hall. "To see you. I believe he's probably being served a cup of tea at the moment. And he's still sitting in _my_ chair, no doubt."

She blanches; she can _feel_ it, as her heart sinks into her stomach. She has no friends, no family, none beyond this house …

… except _one._

"Surely not," she whispers, her voice catching somewhere in her throat.

Thomas reaches out, hesitantly, and gives her hand a brief squeeze. "Mrs. Hughes," he says quietly, "go on. He's certainly not come to see _me,_ after all. And then, perhaps step out for a bit and chat. You'll get no ounce of privacy down here, not with everyone running to and fro."

"I couldn't," she protests. "There are things that need to be done."

"Which are not vital for you to complete at this time," he reminds her. "Dinner service isn't your domain, is it? You'll hardly be missed. If you are, I'll …" He pauses, then smirks. "I'll say you've fallen victim to a nasty _headache."_

She sees the amusement, the quirk of his eyebrows, and she _remembers …_ and laughs.

"Right you are," she says, and they stand. She tries to say something else, but the words fizzle out in her throat and so she simply thanks him.

He mimes a tip of his imaginary hat. "At your service, Mrs. Hughes."

She watches him go, then catches her reflection in the looking glass.

"Goodness, woman," she chides herself as she checks her hair.

The walk to the servants' table is the longest walk she's ever taken. But then …

She recognizes the familiar sound as the butler's chair scrapes across the floor, and suddenly Mr. Carson is standing before her; she almost didn't stop walking, and when she did, she was so close to the man that she had to take a step or two back to avoid reaching out and brushing his chest with her fingertips.

"Mrs. Hughes."

His voice rumbles, resonating in the room and even somewhere in her chest, and she smiles.

"You're actually here." They're the first words that came to her mind, shaky as she utters them, and she regrets letting them fall from her lips. They make her sound like some lovesick, lonely girl longing for her lad to return.

"I am," he replies with a soft smile. "You must be busy; it's nearly dinner."

She glances over his shoulder, sees Mrs. Patmore collecting his teacup and saucer and bustling away, leaving them the only two at the table for a few seconds.

"I've a few moments," Elsie manages. "Perhaps we should step out into the courtyard. This place will be teeming in five minutes flat."

"As you wish." He picks his hat - the familiar bowler - up from the table and sets it atop his head.

Elsie fetches her coat and returns to the servants' hall, where he opens the door for her and allows her to pass before him into the courtyard. Her senses are filled with the familiar, lovely scent he carries, and she breathes it in deeply.

The gravel crunches beneath their feet as she leads him a bit away from the door, heading for a small space by the bicycle shed that affords them a bit of privacy from prying ears and eyes.

They turn a small corner, and before she knows it her hand is engulfed in the crook of his elbow. She looks up, startled.

"I've missed you terribly, Mrs. Hughes," The words tumble from his lips slowly, as if he wants to be sure she hears and understands each and every syllable.

"And I, you," comes her honest reply.

They stand for a moment, each drinking in the appearance of the other.

"I can't believe you're _here,"_ she says after a bit. "What about your new placement? How can you afford to be away? For how _long_ are you away?"

"Well," he starts, and he clears his throat. "For good, actually."

Her brow furrows. "What?"

He takes a deep breath, turning from her as he looks past the lawn and trees and at the darkening sky.

"I've left the church," he says softly. "The priesthood. Retired from it, I suppose."

"Oh, you haven't!" she exclaims. "But … _why?"_

Charles licks his lips and then turns to face her again. His hesitancy takes her aback, but when he looks into her eyes, she _knows._

"Mr. Carson?" It's a whisper, one he'd not have ever heard had he not turned around and stepped infinitesimally closer still to where she stands.

"I've settled back in Downton once again," he tells her, and he moves closer still; to her credit, she doesn't step back. "After all these years. I've been offered a new position. _Here._ And a cottage down the way."

"You're _working_ here?" Now she's definitely on the back foot, and feeling quite unable to catch up. "In what capacity?"

At this, Charles laughs. "I'm to manage his Lordship's wine cellar. I'll be sent away occasionally to find new varieties, but mostly to rotate it all, to be sure he always stays on top of the newest, best types. And to be certain the selections match Mrs. Patmore's menus, of course."

Her laugh echoes his. "Ah … a sensible solution for Mr. Barrow's decided _lack_ of knowledge in that area."

"Evidently."

"But ... wait a minute." She pauses, passes all that information through her mind again, then continues. "How did he know to look for you? The last any of us knew, you were to be leading the huddled masses at St. Felix."

"It was Lady Sybil," he says. "Or, at least she played some small part. His Lordship wrote to me once, said she'd mentioned me in a letter home and he wanted to know how I was faring." Charles pauses, not wanting to divulge the entirety of the letter to her at this time. "In short, he ended up saying that if I ever found myself back at Downton, that he'd appreciate it if I'd be willing to educate the butler about the wines. I'm certain that he meant it as a joke, but then … Well, it's a long story, and you've not much time. I contacted him once I'd decided to leave the church, and now here I am."

"With a new job," she chuckles. "And a butler who knows even less about your favorite topic than even Mr. Molesley did."

"Yes," he answers, meeting her gaze once again.

"Well," she says, her eyes shifting to stare at the ground, "he's fortunate that you were interested in coming back. I always assumed that when you left, you couldn't get away fast enough, and that there wouldn't be any instance in which you'd call Downton home again."

"Some things are different now, after all those years," he murmurs.

Her mouth is suddenly dry. "Such as?" she whispers, and he takes a half a step closer; their bodies are nearly touching.

"You," he replies simply. "Such as _you,_ Mrs. Hughes."

Her head snaps up, and her eyes lock on his, the deep color of blue filling him with wonder. "Me?"

He smiles, hesitant, worried, and waits.

But her reserve crumbles at last and she leans forward, leans _into_ him, and his arms move to encircle her, drawing her closer as he tips his head forward and rests his chin on the top of her head, careful not to muss her hair and give the other staff something to discuss around hidden corners.

Elsie wraps her arms around his waist and squeezes, resting her cheek against him. It feels so natural, as if no time has passed at all, as if the end of the war hadn't nearly kept them apart forever.

"You," he repeats, and her heart sings, filling up with all the things she hadn't even known she was missing.

 ** _And all these useless dreams of living alone._**

 ** _So come let me love you,_**

 ** _Come let me love you_**

 ** _And then colour me in._**

 **" _Colour Me In," Damien Rice_**

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you to everyone for your reviews and kind prodding to get me to continue on with this fic. I promise I would never abandon you, but it was a rough few weeks and I didn't want to get this one wrong.**

 **A note about Mr. Bates, because someone asked: I decided to ignore the god-awful "The Bateses Go to Prison" plot completely for the purposes of this story. They deserve a bit of background happiness, after all, and so we can assume that Mr. Bates continues to be valet to Lord Grantham … and is probably suitably annoyed AF that Thomas is now his superior. It is AU, so here we are.**

 **Initially, this was planned to be about 15 chapters, give or take, and so we're approaching some key events on the horizon. I'd love a review to see what you think of this new chapter.**

 **xxx,**

 **CSotA**


	12. Hope

**A/N: For meetmeinstlouie, for whom I'm so happy to have granted a teensy request.**

 **There will be three more chapters to follow this one. I'm so very grateful for everyone who has stuck with this story. For someone who often finds Mrs. Hughes much easier to write than to Mr. Carson, I nevertheless seem to focus more of my stories on** _ **his**_ **character and not hers. It's been great fun diving in and seeing how things may have played out for our Chelsie were they not always employed at the Abbey. Turns out, it speeds things up considerably. *wink***

 **Thank you very much for all of your lovely reviews. And big hugs to girl-loves-cake for her fanfic artwork, and to Hogwarts Duo for reassuring me that this played out just fine. I hope the Banna folks don't mind ...**

 **xxx,**

 **CSotA**

* * *

 _ **Hoping for a new start**_

 _ **Trying to find my way …**_

 _ **Does anybody see me?**_

 _ **Does anybody know what I've been through?**_

 _ **Some folks gave their lives all at once,**_

 _ **But I'm giving up my life one piece at a time ...**_

 _ **18 - 23 December, 1918**_

Charles wakes with a start, sitting straight up in the large bed, his heart pounding in his chest. He'd been foolish enough to think the nightmares would stop just because he was happier now, happier being back, being around Mrs. Hughes again, having a plan.

He chides himself now for having allowed hope to take over his mind and heart.

The glass of water sits on the nightstand, but he knows he can't grasp it with his trembling hand. Swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress, he plants his feet firmly on the floor and takes several deep, calming breaths. After a few moments, he reaches for the water with his stronger hand and sips it slowly, taking his time until his heart has ceased pounding and settled into a calmer rhythm. His eyes roam, not really looking for anything in particular, until his gaze is drawn back to the nightstand. The small book of prayers that spent so many months tucked in a rucksack or his pocket is a comfort to him now, resting as it does beside the silver photo frame, which now stands empty.

 _Elsie …_

His mind often wanders throughout the day, always ending up landing on an image of her that's stuck deep inside of it, one where she's standing by the water, the wind taking wisps of her hair and fluttering them as she crouches down to pat the dog. He has so many more recent memories of her now, where she's closer and tidier and even one where he can, if he really concentrates, still feel the softness of her cheek beneath his fingertips. But the precious image of her standing by the water is always the place to which he returns. He knows it was the moment she captured his heart, the first time he saw her inherent kindness in a moment when she'd been unreserved and free of the formalities that her position required.

It's early still, the sun not even peeking over the horizon, but sleep will elude him now. He takes time for a daily prayer, pulling each silent word from his faithful heart. Then, with the thought of how a hot bath and hearty breakfast can most certainly be enjoyed due to the extra hours he now has, he manages at last to get out of bed.

There's a chill in the cottage, and Charles can feel in his bones that a cold, perhaps icy rain is on its way, but he's hopeful that it won't interfere with today's plans. Anna and Mrs. Hughes are coming to the cottage during the slow hours of the afternoon, and Charles is hoping that their feminine touch can brighten the place up a bit. Of course, it's really Mrs. Hughes's opinion he'd like the most, but he could never have invited her alone. Still, he wishes to see what she prefers for curtains in the rooms whose windows remain bare and to hear her thoughts on a small slice of carpet in one room, a paint color for another. He has big plans for this cottage, hopefully _soon,_ and they most definitely involve Downton's housekeeper.

 **oOoOoOo**

"Ohh, but I really think the blue would be preferable. Don't you, Mrs. Hughes?" Anna's brow furrows as she contemplates the color swatches before them - scarves and other bits of spare fabrics they'd brought in an attempt to see what worked in the lighting of each room for window and floor coverings.

"I do." Elsie turns to Charles, who's been silent thus far. "Well, Mr. Carson?" Elsie says matter-of-factly.

"What do _you_ think? Do you prefer the blue?"

"It's not _my_ bedroom, Mr. Carson."

Charles nearly collapses from embarrassment, and Anna has to turn around to keep from giggling at the look on his face.

"I do think you might want to avoid something as pale as white or yellow," Elsie advises. "This room will let in a good deal of sunlight in the spring and summer months, and even with the curtains to filter it, it'll be quite a bright way to wake up."

"You're saying that as if I'll not be up until after sunrise," he grumbles, stifling a yawn and trying very hard not to think about how he was up at half-three just this very morning.

"Well," she reasons, "you never have to be at the Abbey until nine most days, and on the days you have no business at the house, I imagine you're free to sleep as long as you wish."

"Idle hands are the Devil's workshop, Mrs. Hughes," Charles intones. "I do try not to linger in bed when there are plenty of things that I can accomplish."

"Such as?" She doesn't mean to press, but she's genuinely curious about what he gets up to in his spare time. "Besides assisting the Reverend Travis, I mean. I know you've been enjoying your time there."

"I have," he says, and he rubs his hands together. "Well, then. Blue it is. Now, ladies, I believe it's time for a break. I've some tea and a few of Mrs. Patmore's lemon biscuits downstairs, if you'd care to join me?" He looks at Anna in particular, as he knows she's on a bit tighter of a schedule.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson, that sounds lovely." Anna's smile is infectious, spreading to both Charles and Elsie as the three head back down to the kitchen. It's been a productive day, and Charles is grateful to be able to express his thanks to the two women who have just, in a matter of an hour and a half, made a rather impressive list of things both great and small that will turn his small house into a home.

Anna stays for one cup of tea, noting the time and that she really should be getting back. She's hesitant to leave Mrs. Hughes behind, knowing that if any of the village residents catch wind of the unmarried housekeeper spending time at the newly-arrived bachelor's cottage, tongues will wag. But she doesn't say anything, her silence borne of the simple fear that if she speaks up, Mrs. Hughes will return to the Abbey with her … and Anna doesn't precisely want _that,_ either. Something is brewing between the housekeeper and the keeper of the wines, something deeper than Anna thinks most people realize. Due to just recently having lived through a tricky courtship and a secret marriage herself, she recognizes the signs: a stolen look here, a shy half-smile there, a slight pinking of her cheeks or trembling of his hand. And she has insider information that neither Mr. Carson nor Mrs. Hughes knows about, because just last night John confided in her that Mrs. Hughes had actually been the driving force behind Mr. Carson's return to Downton. Anna had admonished her husband for telling her, and had expressed her unease that Lord Grantham even shared it with John _…_ but deep down, she's happy for it, and if there's anything she can do to ease their way, she's all for it.

"I won't tell a soul," Anna whispers to Mrs. Hughes. "Just don't miss dinner." And, with that, she disappears into the wind.

Elsie closes the door behind Anna, well aware of Charles's presence at her back.

"I probably _shouldn't_ be here alone with you, Mr. Carson." She has to force the words out.

"I know," he admits. "It's been a long time since I lived in Downton Village, but I doubt much has changed on _that_ score. And it wouldn't do for the housekeeper of Downton Abbey to ignore the rules of propriety that she touts to her maids, after all."

"No." She turns to face him. "Let me help you clean up, though. It's the least I can do."

His hand already trembling after the business of the day, Charles smiles softly and nods his agreement, extending an arm toward the kitchen to allow her to pass by.

She washes, and he dries. He smiles when she offers to help with the curtains, even going so far as to tell him she'd be willing to accompany him into Ripon on her next half-day, which happens to be on the twenty-third.

"I'm surprised to have it, truth be told," she confides.

"But it's your regular one, isn't it?"

"It is. Today was overdue, and it's strange to have two in the span of a week or so. And with all that's been going on …"

The war is still fresh in their minds, and the hospital function of Downton will be continuing well into the new year. In the past week, however, two patients have died. Elsie isn't directly involved in their care anymore, naturally, but once in a while a soldier arrives whom she recognizes and she tries to spend some time with him. That was the case with one of the two young men they lost yesterday, his death coming as a shock given the progress he'd been making.

Charles passes her the towel but overestimates quite how far away she is, bumping her arm with his hand.

"Sorry about that," he mumbles.

She turns to him, her eyes bright with unshed tears, but she smiles as she takes the cloth from his hand. "Don't be."

Charles purses his lips, deciding. "I'll walk you back up, if you'd like. The sun is going down, and I'd hate for you to be walking alone in the dark."

"I would like that."

She allows him to help her with her coat, wishing he weren't so meticulous; she finds herself longing for a simple touch of his fingertips on her shoulder, or perhaps her neck, but it never comes. He _does_ give her his elbow again, though, and she tucks her hand in, the feel of him beside her as they walk, their steps in sync, already familiar and welcome.

 **oOoOoOo**

The next few days go by in a whirlwind of gift-wrapping, tree-decorating, and cookie-baking. Charles is at the Abbey twice, but he's disappointed to never have a chance to see Mrs. Hughes. He does have a chance to chat with Mrs. Patmore, however, who sends him home with a fresh bundle of gingerbread on one day and a tin of shortbread biscuits on another.

And then one night, just as he's about to leave ...

"Mrs. Hughes!"

Elsie turns just in time to see Charles on his way out the door for the evening. "Oh, I didn't realize you were still about." She crosses the servants' hall and meets him by the door.

He smiles ruefully, and she can see he's missed her.

"Have you still got the half-day tomorrow?"

She smiles brightly. "I do, Mr. Carson."

His heart flutters, and he stands a bit straighter, tugs the pocket flap of his coat. "Then ... Ripon?"

"Shall I meet you at the cottage?" she asks, but he shakes his head.

"Better here, I think," he advises. "Seven?"

"Perfect." She nods enthusiastically; he's timed it beautifully, as breakfast for the staff is normally over by half-six.

Strangely, Charles sleeps more soundly that night than he has in weeks, the prospect of spending the following morning and early afternoon - and, depending on how _that_ plays out, many, _many_ mornings and afternoons in the future - with the lovely Elsie Hughes.

 **oOoOoOo**

When morning comes, it's brisk and windy. Elsie has to force herself to eat slowly, lest she give anything away about her excitement and anxiety surrounding spending half a day away from the Abbey with Mr. Carson.

"Anna, let's go over a few things once you've finished up," she says across the table.

"Of course, Mrs. Hughes."

They meet in Elsie's sitting room, where she and Anna review the last-minute changes Lady Grantham sent down the day prior: one guest room that needs making up, a few final touches to the tree, and the small gifts that Elsie has kept hidden away for Lord Grantham.

"Bring them to her around ten. She'll be in the morning room, and his Lordship will likely be out riding with Lady Mary."

"Yes. Lady Mary mentioned that this morning," Anna says, nodding. "A bit daft, if you ask me. It's freezing out there!"

"Ah, but it'll be bright and sunny later on, mark my words," Elsie says, itching to get out and experience it herself. "And Lord knows, she needs a breath of fresh air. She's been spending so much time looking after Mr. Crawley."

"And not enough looking after herself," Anna says lowly. "I know what you mean."

They finish up, and Anna heads for the sitting room door before turning around once more to face Elsie. "Have fun, Mrs. Hughes," she says quietly.

Elsie chuckles at the gleam in the younger woman's eye. "We're shopping for fabric, Anna. That's all."

Anna glances out into the corridor, then steps back into the room so as not to be overheard by passing footmen or, heaven forbid, Miss O'Brien.

"You're going on a lovely walk, having a spot of lunch, and doing a bit of shopping. _Together._ "

"Oh, it's all quite innocent, I can assure you." Elsie raises an eyebrow. "Besides, it's two days until Christmas. Shops won't be open late, and it's cold out. Sunny, certainly, but windy ..."

Anna just stares at her, waiting.

"It's very innocent," Elsie repeats weakly. "Men are rubbish at things like fabric and drapes. He just needs help picking out something appropriate."

"Well," Anna says, clearing her throat meaningfully. "He's not asked _me,_ has he? Even though the blue was _my_ idea?"

Elsie flushes, and Anna sees it, winks at her, then ducks out the door.

"No," Elsie whispers to the empty room, unable to help a wide smile from appearing on her face. "He hasn't."

She stands for two full minutes before snapping back to the present and realizing she'd better fix her hat and coat in order to not be late. She's just buttoning the last button when she hears the door at the servants' entrance open and close, and Mr. Carson's booming voice greeting the few stragglers at the table for whom bells have not yet rung.

Elsie passes the kitchen without issue, grateful for Mrs. Patmore's tact despite what she knows is the cook's overwhelming support of today's outing. Still, she ducks her head through the kitchen door as an afterthought.

"I'll be back at two, Mrs. Patmore. Anna's in charge."

Thomas shoots a look at the housekeeper from where he stands under the bellboard. "I think not."

"Oh, lighten up, Mr. Barrow," Elsie says, breezing past him to where Charles stands waiting. "I was only joking. Mostly."

Charles, speechless at her cheek - which he finds inappropriate and alluring in equal parts - merely holds open the door.

They're two steps out the door when the wind blows a forceful gust through the courtyard, and the corner of Elsie's scarf, which she'd not had time to fully tuck in, is caught up in it and blows up in front of her face.

"Oh, my!" she exclaims, reaching for it.

But Charles is quicker, taking up the edge of the scarf in his fingers and tucking it in gently underneath the collar of her coat. His fingers - ungloved, as he had removed them upon entering the house and was only halfway through putting them back on when the scarf came loose - brush her neck, lingering for a moment longer than strictly necessary.

Elsie's breath catches, and she realizes she's biting down on her lip when she sees his eyes drawn to her mouth.

"Shall we?"

His voice is softer than usual, and it stirs something deep within her.

This time, she tucks her hand into the bend of his elbow before he even has a chance to reach for her.

They walk at a brisk pace due to the chill, their plan simple: the bus from Downton to Ripon, where Elsie plans to stop at a good shop with reasonably-priced cloth before they have a leisurely lunch at his favorite pub. It'll be nothing fancy, which suits them both.

The morning goes quite well until they get to the fabric store. The shopkeeper, who knows Elsie from other times she's been in for various purchases, strikes up a conversation. The woman is clearly curious about Mr. Carson, and Elsie feels the need to tread carefully, explaining in measured words that Mr. Carson is newly employed at the Abbey in a special position designed by Lord Grantham himself, and that he requires someone from the staff to assist in the necessities like linens and curtains given that the cottage he is living in has been uninhabited for some time now.

Charles wanders off at one point, not wanting to be questioned by the seemingly well-meaning woman, but the fatigue from two poor nights' sleep mixed with a slight bit of anxiety at being out for the half-day with Mrs. Hughes has him on edge. He reaches for a small object, intending to move it off the shelf in order to get a better look at what's behind it, but the object - a cone for spinning thread, he thinks - tumbles from his hand when he's unable to keep a tight grasp on it. He swears lowly, but is overheard nonetheless, and he's mortified to see the housekeeper turn and look swiftly in his direction, rushing over to him as he feels embarrassment creep up his neck.

"Mr. Carson?" Her voice is a blessed whisper, which doesn't at all mirror the concern on her face, and he can only shake his head in anger.

"This damn hand," he mutters.

"It's fine," Elsie says, putting the spool back on the table and brushing her fingers over his. "Come on. I see what we're looking for in the back." She tugs gently at his arm and points out the fabric she spotted a moment before.

"Oh, yes," he replies, nodding. "That will do very nicely."

"Do you like it, then?"

Charles looks at her. "Do you?"

Her mouth opens, then closes abruptly, biting back the reminder that it's not _her_ house.

The silence between them now is decidedly uncomfortable, so she manages, "I do like it. It'll suit nicely, and the price is fair."

Charles clears his throat and turns his attention to the saleswoman, indicating the bolt of fabric in question. He tries to speak but is suddenly at a loss and looks to Elsie once again, who chuckles and rolls her eyes a bit before telling the woman how much of the fabric they actually need. Elsie selects a matching thread, then goes back and switches it for another; Charles watches her, feeling completely inept at his inability to see the difference between the hues even though they're clearly not the same in her eyes, and he's grateful that he asked for her assistance.

She takes charge of the parcel as they leave, stealing a look at his hand. "Are you feeling better now?"

Charles sighs as they make their way to the pub. "It isn't even that I feel poorly, Mrs. Hughes. Not really. I just can't count on it to behave sometimes."

She stops walking, and the tug on his arm makes him turn to face her. She examines him intently, then gives a tight nod.

"You're not sleeping well."

His eyebrows raise with his amusement. "Is that so?"

"It is," she declares, leading him once again toward the pub. "That makes a difference, doesn't it? With the shaking, I mean."

"It does," he admits, and then he sighs. "I'm glad it wasn't a bottle of his Lordship's best Bordeaux I was reaching for."

"You'd have had _both_ hands on that, I'd wager. You're hardly irresponsible."

He smiles in reply.

The pub is busier than he'd expected given the proximity to the Christmas holiday, and they are lucky to manage a small table tucked away in the corner. They're both grateful for the semi-privacy it affords, and although neither would ever admit that aloud, a shared look across the menu conveys it well enough.

Elsie leads their talk over the meal back to his time in the church. She presses him a bit more about how he came to determine he'd be happy with a different life, but he skirts that issue for the time being and deftly steers the conversation back to _her,_ asking for details about how life at Downton flows now that he's become a bit more familiar with the place again.

"Attics still drafty?" he asks as he sips his ale.

"Frigid," she confirms with a laugh, "although you know how it is. By the time one is upstairs and finally in bed, sleep comes so swiftly that it barely matters."

He stares into his glass, and she's reminded again that _he's_ not been sleeping well.

"Is … Is something wrong, Mr. Carson?"

"Yes," he answers truthfully. "But that's not a conversation for now." His eyes dart around the room. "Not for _here."_

"Well, you know I won't let it go now."

And, for the first time since they sat down, he smiles brightly at her, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"Oh, I'm counting on that."

They leave half an hour afterward, and Elsie is pleasantly surprised to see an extra coin on the table for their server, who'd had both an attentive nature and a knack for knowing when to just leave his customers alone to enjoy their meal in peace. There's a kindness and a gentle generosity about Mr. Carson, and she appreciates being able to see it in small bits and bobs throughout the time they spend in one another's company.

The sky is brighter than it was when they'd arrived, and the sun warms the air a bit. Mixed with the dying down of the wind, it is a much more pleasant walk to pick up the bus, and the good weather holds all the way to Downton.

There's a bit of hesitancy in his steps as they head back, as if he's loath to actually _arrive._ They pass the bundle with the fabric back and forth between them now and then, but she can feel something is bothering him. He was uncomfortable before when she'd asked, but she knows that leaving it to sit between them as they dance around it … well, it's not their way with one another.

There's a bench on the far side of the servants' courtyard, and Elsie steers them toward it. It affords a bit of privacy where it's located, and they sit together, both sighing as they settle in.

"Are you going to tell me, then, Mr. Carson?"

Her voice is quiet, caring, and he can hear the rest of what she _didn't_ say. _Are you_ _ **finally**_ _going to tell me? Do you trust me with whatever this is that's bothering you?_

He slides his gloves off, tucking them into his coat pocket before spreading his fingers out on his lap, the paleness of his skin marked with a few spots here and there but all of it a stark contrast to the black of his heavy coat and dark trousers.

His right hand trembles. She hesitates for just a moment, then removes her own gloves and takes his hand between hers, lifts it, and places the gentlest of kisses to the back of it. Her eyes remain trained on his hand as she puts it back into his lap, gently, but when she tries to remove her own hands from his, his fingers grasp hers and refuse to let go.

She smiles, and looks up at him at last.

"It's alright, Mr. Carson. Your secrets …"

"… are safe with you," he answers in a whisper. "Yes. I remember."

He looks out over the courtyard, spies the small bicycle shed where they had their last personal exchange. His feelings for the woman beside him have only grown since then, despite how little time they'd spent together until today, and he finally dives into it all.

"I came back here full of … well, _hope,_ I suppose. A new path." He smirks. "I'm not getting any younger, and the past years were difficult."

"For us all," she agrees. "I never thought it would end."

Pain flashes across his face; it's gone in an instant, but she sees it. "For me, it seems as though it hasn't."

 _Ohhh,_ she thinks.

"It's why you aren't sleeping."

"It is." He holds up their hands. "It's why this is worse, too, I think. None of this was how it was supposed to be."

"Well, I think you're doing remarkably well, Mr. Carson."

He barks out a laugh. "I'm _not,_ though. That's the thing. I feel as if my entire life, my entire _plan,_ is in … flux."

She's thoughtful for a bit, her fingers warming in his grasp, and she chooses her next words very carefully. "We had a gentleman employed here, a Mr. Lang," she confides. "He was troubled by horrific dreams from his years on the front, from the things we saw, although I think he had it worse than we _ever_ did. He'd wake screaming, fully immersed in it all over again."

Charles is nodding, and her heart breaks as she becomes certain that he, too, is likely suffering something of the same.

"It's not been long, Mr. Carson," she reasons. "It's no wonder it's fresh in your mind like that."

"I never expected to _watch_ so many of them die," he says bluntly, and his voice is thick with emotion.

"I know." She pats his hand with hers. "But that doesn't mean you should lose hope, Mr. Carson. We should _always_ travel in hope."

"That's almost exactly what Lord Grantham told me when we met for lunch. About my return, I mean."

Elsie is intrigued. "Did he now? Were you so hopeless then, too?"

He blushes. "Well, not in the same way, precisely."

Something niggles at her mind. "You said before that _I_ was part of the reason for your return," she says slowly, her face a furious shade of pink at her boldness. "But I presume you'd not have told his Lordship about _that._ "

Charles turns to face her, squeezes her hand. "Oh, but I did."

She exhales slowly, a soft puff of steam in the air between them. "And what, _exactly_ , did you say to him? That you wanted to … what, to walk out with his housekeeper? Surely not."

Charles shakes his head slowly. "No." He looks into her eyes, the deep blue a comfort to him, like a safe harbor for his heart in the middle of a deep blue ocean, her caring the lifeboat when he feels he's drowning. "I told him I hoped to _marry_ her."

The words are a jolt through her heart. "You ... You _what?_ Charles Carson! Do you mean to tell me that you told _his Lordship_ that you wanted to marry me before you even discussed it with _me?_ "

"Yes," he replies slowly, confused. "I didn't want to be sneaky, and you're very highly valued here."

She just stares at him, dumbfounded.

"You're upset. Why?"

"Why?! Oh, I can't imagine!" She rolls her eyes, clearly irritated. "I could smack you if I didn't want to -" She stops herself.

"To …?"

"Never mind," she mutters.

"Well, anyhow, now we're back to why it was actually a foolish idea," he says sadly.

Elsie shifts on the seat, turns a bit more to better face him. "And why is that?"

He holds up their hands again. "Because of _this._ Because I'm off-kilter now, tired, and this infirmity … it isn't getting better. It's only getting worse. I can't even go into a shop without causing a problem."

"It was hardly a problem," she says. "And you're hardly 'off-kilter' all the time. You've had a rough go of it, a difficult time coming back and settling back in to a normal life, and then on top of that you went and made an enormous change to your entire lifestyle!"

"Well, most times lately I think I'm just a sad old man," he mutters.

Elsie pulls his hand onto her lap, rubs it softly. " _I_ don't think so, Mr. Carson. I think you're afraid. Aren't we all, at the end of the day, just a little bit afraid of what tomorrow will bring?"

"Well, I certainly don't expect you'd be willing to be stuck with me as I am now."

He says it so matter-of-factly, he's so sure of himself, that she knows he isn't just fishing for a compliment.

"Perhaps I would," she says. "You wouldn't know. You haven't even asked."

He turns to face her, the question in his eyes, and she smiles. And then she drops his hand, reaches for him and takes his face gently in her hands, and leans in to press the softest of kisses to the corner of his mouth.

"I just might be elated to be stuck with you, Charles Carson," she whispers, her breath hot against the cold skin of his face. "So, if you ever get around to asking properly, you can be fairly certain of my answer."

He tips his forehead to touch hers, his heart pounding in his chest. "Daft woman," he mumbles.

Her laugh carries clear across the courtyard.

"Let's get inside," she says, standing slowly and then pulling him to his feet. He takes up the bundle and they make their way to the door. "I'm sure there's hot tea waiting for us, and I do have a job to get back to." She pauses. "One that I'm evidently in no danger of losing, thanks to your _efforts_ with his Lordship." She rolls her eyes at him, but there's humor and happiness in them.

"Cheeky," he replies, and she can see that he's more at ease.

"Always," she says as she passes by him and through the door. "You'd better get used to that if you expect this plan of yours to work."

"Funny," he mumbles as he follows her in. "That's almost exactly the same advice I got from his Lordship."

 _ **Step by step and day by day I find,**_

 _ **I'm taking back my life one piece at a time.**_

" _ **One Piece at A Time," Joe Jencks**_

 **(This song was written with and for soldiers suffering by PTSD. It's part of a collection entitled "Until You Come Home: Songs to Heal the Wounds of War," but is also on Joe's album entitled** _ **Poets, Philosophers, Workers, & Wanderers.**_ **)**

 **I'd love a review if you're so inclined. Thanks! :) x**


	13. Rebirth

**A/N: Wow! Thanks so much for the awesome reviews for Ch 12. I can't reply privately to the guest reviewers, so please take my very public thanks here. I truly appreciate everyone who's taken the chance on this AU.**

 **This one seems a bit wonky near the beginning with tenses, but that's because we're flipping back from the wedding day (!) to some of Elsie's memories (a.k.a. your recap of things unwritten) and then back again. Alas, I have not written the wedding itself. I was too excited to get to the honeymoon instead. M rated near the end, although not horribly so.**

 **Enjoy! Please do let me know what you think.**

 **xxx,  
CSotA**

* * *

 _ **I was half not whole, in step with none.**_

 _ **Reaching through this world, in need of one ...**_

 _ **16 - 20 May, 1919**_

Elsie wakes upon hearing the knock on her door. It's Beryl Patmore, her hands full with a tray containing tea and a hearty breakfast.

"Rise and shine," the cook sings out, gleeful at the prospect of the day ahead. "Did you manage any sleep?"

Elsie sits up, her face full of sleepiness but with a broad smile nonetheless.

"I slept like the dead," she confides. "I'm not sure _how_ I didn't wake up at dawn. That _never_ happens."

"Well," Beryl replies, setting the tray down, "perhaps your body knew you'd need a few hours in the bank."

"Thank you for this," Elsie says, resolutely ignoring the teasing as she reaches for the cup and saucer that Beryl is handing over. "I'd have been perfectly happy to head down to the kitchen."

"Not on your life, Mrs. Hughes. You're the bride today, and you deserve a bit of pampering." She wipes her hands on her apron after making up a plate for Elsie and setting it on the nightstand. "I'll leave the rest over there. Goodness knows that our small beds aren't meant to hold a big breakfast tray like the ladies upstairs get. Be sure and eat as much as you can, just in case you've not got much chance later on."

Elsie nods and watches as the cook leaves and closes the door securely behind herself, and she finds her mind wandering as she sips her tea.

It had taken Charles exactly twenty-six more hours before he proposed properly - on Christmas Eve, in Elsie's parlour. Despite her previous assurance that she would, in fact, be quite willing to become his wife, he was so nervous that he nearly passed out. But Elsie's hand on his arm, and the subsequent feeling of her _in_ his arms as they celebrated with a long embrace followed by a chaste kiss, calmed him more than expected. As she thinks back on that evening now, Elsie's heart begins a newly-familiar thumping, something a bit faster than the beat she'd been familiar with for most of her life … up until the day she'd boldly kissed her fiance on the bench in the courtyard.

The family and staff were told on Boxing Day, at which point Elsie made it perfectly clear to all parties that the wedding would be quite small, very private, and without any fuss whatsoever. Everyone nodded in understanding, but none were too shocked when Lady Grantham summoned her cook and lady's maid up to the morning room to plan a "small celebration" for the couple's special day.

Elsie, who protested quite loudly and angrily to Charles the following day, ended up acquiescing to his request that she accept. It _was_ a nice gesture, as he reminded her several times, and given that the family were not only allowing her to stay on after the wedding but insisting on a full week's honeymoon away as well, they agreed that it would be better to simply accept her Ladyship's input.

The schoolhouse was booked for a small reception, and Elsie planned all of the detailed items, from the cake down to the very last blossom of her bouquet, with nothing but support from Lady Grantham; Charles, for his part, had but one request: that Edmund be invited to participate in the ceremony itself. The man was happy to oblige. Elsie appreciated the request and the chance to finally meet the infamous Edmund Martin, who played such an important part in much of Charles's life.

Now, as she reaches for her plate, Elsie can't help but laugh.

 _You're getting_ _ **married,**_ _Elsie! Good Lord, who'd ever have thought?_ _And it's not even a marriage of convenience._

Elsie's been unsure of several things leading up to their wedding day, but of this one thing, she is now _absolutely_ sure.

The fire in Charles's eyes as he pressed her hand to his cheek last night, promising to see her soon at the altar, was proof enough.

 **oOoOoOo**

She'd told him to choose everything for their honeymoon, but he took it a step further and had not told her a blessed thing about it except that they'd be gone for six nights and that no one save Lord and Lady Grantham knew where they'd be heading. He never told her that Lord Grantham had insisted on paying for it all, that Charles had respectfully refused, and that they'd struck a bargain by which his Lordship insisted upon making reservations at a restaurant of his own choosing, one where Charles and Elsie would be comfortable dining in their finest attire.

"Pack your loveliest dress," Charles told her two weeks ago.

"I'm sorry?"

"Well," he said immediately afterward, his long fingers trailing briefly over the outside of her hand as they stood side-by-side in the yard by the servants' entrance, when she clasped onto his hand in a moment of impulse and squeezed it firmly. "Bring one that makes you feel lovely. How's that?"

She turned to him then, thinking him daft, but smiled and tilted her head, shaking it ever-so-slightly as she contemplated the mysterious look on his face.

"Alright," she replied breathlessly, and she spent the next five days taking in her best dress - the one from years ago that sat in the back of her closet - and adding a bit of embellishment to the edge of the bodice.

And now they're speeding away to parts unknown, although not _truly_ unknown, for once they arrived at their train platform she knew they were at least headed to Scarborough … which confuses her now as she contemplates the dress sitting in her suitcase.

But then her hand is in his again, and the sunlight comes in through the train's small window as they move along. The ray bounces off the thin gold band on her finger and she pulls a stray piece of rice from her sleeve. She looks up to see Charles looking down at her, and all is right in Elsie's world for that one brief, priceless moment.

 **oOoOoOo**

It's the bed, tucked away in the corner by the window, that gives them pause.

Everything leading up to their entering the room at the inn had gone smoothly, including the signing of their names in the ledger as _Mr. and Mrs. Charles Carson._ He'd worried about that, not wanting his tremor to act up and interfere with that one small-but-significant action, and he felt rather than saw her soft smile as she looked at the ink flowing onto the page. Not even the giving of the key - one key, for one room - threw him. She marveled at his easy demeanor as he passed the key over to her with a chuckle ("The keeper of the keys, even now."), and she smiled along with him as it dropped into her hand.

But now - _now_ \- key used and placed safely into her handbag, door opened and soft breeze coming through the cracked-open window and fluttering the curtain, they are speechless. Charles gathers enough of his wits to put the bags down and close the door behind them, locking it for good measure and telling himself that it's for safety and not for any other reasons, and he feels his cheeks warm at the thought of what they will undoubtedly be getting up to as he turns and faces the bed.

And his wife. She's not moved, from what he can tell, and he needs to come around to see her face properly in order to discern if she's silent out of fear or something else.

She looks up, her sapphire eyes sparkling with unshed tears, and he reaches up to cup her cheek, leans in to place the gentlest of kisses on her eyes, his lips coming away damp and slightly salty as if he'd kissed the ocean lapping the shore outside of their room.

"I love you," she whispers, leaning in and resting her forehead on his chin. "I don't think I've said it aloud, not once over all these past months, but I thought it best to tell you, to be sure you knew."

"I know," he reassures her. "I don't wager we'd be standing here if you didn't."

She laughs. "No," she agrees, her brogue thick in her overwhelming emotion. "Not likely."

His arms encircle her and he pulls her to his chest, wanting nothing more than to keep her safe and secure for the rest of their days.

"I love you, too," he whispers into her hair. "With a force that occasionally frightens me, truth be told. It's like nothing I've ever known."

"I find that hard to believe, given where you've come from."

He thinks back to his years as a deacon, then the Padre and the post at St. Felix. He remembers the depth of feeling he had for his vocation, the dedication he _still_ has in many ways to something he can't see … or touch.

He squeezes her more tightly. He can see and touch _her,_ and that makes all the difference.

She doesn't dare to look up at him, knows that he, like she, has such difficulty expressing heartfelt emotions in clear words, and she doesn't want to break the magic of the moment. She squeezes him and turns her head slightly to place a kiss over his coat, right over where she feels his heart steadily beating.

"Charles, I've … I've never ..." she manages. She is mortified to even _speak_ of it, knows she must but somehow has avoided it this whole time, although they're both practical and in some ways it isn't quite as hard to verbalize as the _I love you._ But she needs him to understand.

"Slow steps, Elsie," he reminds her, and she smiles. It's he who backs away then, breaks the tightness of their embrace in order to lean in for a kiss, a reserved one that somehow turns into two (and then more) until they're a bit breathless and not at all sure of how long they've been standing there.

"Slow steps," she remembers. "I suppose we should remove our coats?"

His stomach rumbles.

"And then go down to the restaurant,"she adds, reaching out to rub his belly lovingly.

 **oOoOoOo**

Dinner in the inn's small restaurant is wonderful, and they find a sudden need to cram in as much conversation as possible as they consume the bottle of wine Charles ordered. It's as if they suspect the rest of their honeymoon will not allow for such conversation, and as Elsie sips at the wine, her belly is warmed by something besides the alcohol.

He has endless questions about Downton that extend far beyond the ones he'd tucked away in letters or asked since having returned, and she's happy to answer them and fill in the blanks. She forgets sometimes that there are small details he has no knowledge of, and she sees how his eyes light up with excitement as his own memories from years ago mix with new information she's passing along. She suggests he might come take tea with her on the slow days, even visit with Mrs. Patmore a bit more or perhaps get to know Mr. Bates. He nods his head slowly in thought, then reaches for her hand on the table, intertwining their fingers in order to leave her with no doubt as to whom he'd _really_ be there to visit.

Her questions are mostly about his life with the church. They're distinctly more personal ones, designed to continue the unraveling of his heart, of which she'd claimed half-ownership a mere nine hours ago, and he finds himself surprisingly happy to oblige. She also manages to pull out information about his parents, his early days at Downton, learning that he and Lord Grantham were quite close, in fact, more like what she'd deem "friends" than she'd originally assumed. It surprises her, this notion that her husband, staunch follower of rules and of "how things are" would allow himself to be befriended by a young lord, until she remembers that this same man left good employ for a life as a performer on the stage, that he fell in love with a fellow singer, and that he was cheated by not one but two friends that summer. She can summarize what she's just put together in very few words: Charles Carson may be a staunch rule follower, but he's willing to break them for the people he holds most dear.

And, she realizes in afterthought as she finishes her second glass of wine, it's been the cause of so much heartbreak in his life. His mother, gone decades ago; his father, to whom he'd allowed himself to grow close despite a disinterest on the part of the elder Carson to really raise his son; Downton, abandoned once Lord Grantham began having children, when Charles was suddenly, albeit understandably, replaced as confidant by the lovely Cora Crawley; Charlie Grigg, and Alice, the family of three that suddenly wasn't.

"What is it?"

Elsie realizes he stopped talking moments ago, and he's looking quizzically at her.

"Nothing." She shakes her head, deflecting, and he's not having it.

The waiter arrives at their table, giving her a moment of reprieve as soup bowls are silently whisked away.

"It isn't," Charles argues gently once the waiter is gone. "Tell me."

She sighs deeply, slowly, and meets his gaze. "I've just realized how lucky I am, Charlie," she says softly, and his eyebrows flick at the endearing name as he smiles.

"How so?"

She squeezes his fingers in her own. "It would seem you've had an unusually bad time of it," she says, nearly whispering so as not to be overheard, "giving your heart to others and having it not work out as you'd planned. I'm feeling quite lucky that you've entrusted it to _me."_

Their main meals arrive shortly thereafter - lamb for her, perfectly cooked, and the beef Wellington for him - and Charles orders a second bottle of wine. Elsie raises an eyebrow, but he just replies silently with one of his own: _Why not?_ By the time the waiter has left, they become busy oohing and aahing over their dishes, even venturing so far as to try a bite of each other's as they go.

Charles watches his wife as they eat. Their conversation has necessarily become bits and bobs here and there, and he finds himself not minding one bit because it gives him a chance to examine her features in detail. He wonders if he'll ever memorize all the small lines of her face, the curve of her nose … her hips.

His brow furrows, and it occurs to him that she may be wondering the same thing about _him._

 **oOoOoOo**

They take their time going back to the room, the remainder of the wine in Charles's currently-steady hand. Elsie's cheeks are warm from the drink, although with each step closer to the room she feels as though she may need another few sips.

Charles can feel the nervousness flowing off of her in waves. They'd discussed, quite briefly, the conditions of their marriage - the expectations he had - and she'd been rather forthright in admitting she wouldn't want simply a marriage of convenience. The thought that she might be truly interested in that shared intimacy with him was overwhelming at first, given the assumptions (recently proven correct) he'd had about her lack of experience in such things. And despite his own lack of experience, amounting to a very long-ago, rather mortifying experience in the back of a dance hall, he'd spent the remaining days between that conversation and their wedding day very much looking forward to holding her in his arms as she slept.

He closes the door behind them, locking it once more, and turns to face her.

"Would you like another glass?" he asks, holding up the wine, and she nods gratefully and slips into the bathroom to change her clothes. _No point in pretending,_ she thinks. And, truth be told, she's done with the corset after spending a very long day stuffed inside of it.

She emerges not ten minutes later, much earlier than Charles expected her. He thinks belatedly that he should have known Elsie - _his_ Elsie - wastes no time, that she-

The thoughts fizzle out in his head as he turns to face her. She's taken her hair down, although it remains loosely tied with a ribbon and falling down her back. He longs to touch it, to see how soft it really is, and it occurs to him that he can do that now. After a moment, he realizes his mouth is hanging open, and he closes it abruptly.

Under his gaze, Elsie blushes furiously, and her eyes dart about until she spies the wine. Charles notices; he reaches for the glasses, holding them for a moment as she deposits her clothes in the armoire before handing over her glass and clinking them together.

"To my beautiful bride," he says, his deep voice quivering.

"To my handsome husband," she returns, and suddenly she realizes she's fine, _they're_ fine, back to how they always are together. A bit of teasing, but quite looking forward to these next precious days alone.

"If you wish," he returns, and they drink.

Elsie reaches down to adjust the knot holding her new dressing robe together. She splurged on the nightie, but the robe was a gift from the downstairs ladies at Downton. The color is an off-white, which Anna knew would go with the nightgown Elsie had purchased because Anna had been with her when she did so.

 _That_ was an awkward afternoon, Elsie thinks now as she remembers bits of their conversation.

She drains the glass in three big sips as Charles looks on, bemused. When she places the glass on the table, he rests his beside it, then approaches her and rests his hands on her upper arms, squeezing lightly, lovingly.

"Elsie," he says quietly, and he waits until she's looking up at him, into his eyes before continuing. "We don't have to …"

"Oh, hush," she whispers. "Unless … You haven't changed _your_ mind, have you?" The fear thuds her heart for one long, speechless moment, until the look on his face becomes one of shock.

"Are you joking? Elsie, I've been dreaming of this night for a very, _very_ long time."

She smiles up at him, takes a deep breath, and adds, "As have I. I'm not sure it's ladylike to admit that, but there it is." She lifts her hands and places them under the lapels of his jacket, slipping it off expertly and moving to hang it next to her own things.

He comes up behind her and rests his hands on her hips, and leans forward to pull the collar of her robe aside slightly in order to place a soft kiss to the side of her neck.

She breaks out in gooseflesh, which he finds momentarily mesmerizing. His trance is only broken when she turns, grasps his face in her hands, and pulls him down for a passionate kiss.

 **oOoOoOo**

Her breath joins his in gasps and whispers as the moon rises above the ocean. He makes no effort to change into some kind of pajamas, and secretly Elsie is glad of it. She's rather enjoying unwrapping her husband: jacket, braces, the unbuttoning of his shirt …

He lays his hands over hers then, stops her from removing his vest as he slowly moves them to the bed, pulling the blanket down and watching as she tries to get comfortable before he kicks his shoes off and takes his place by her side.

His fingers are warm on her skin, soft as they trail up her bare arm and catch her hair, pulling the length of ribbon until it unties, her hair cascading out in a wave that he plunges his hand into, reveling in the softness of it.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, leaning in and kissing her softly, gently prying her mouth open with his own.

Elsie is very glad he made her sit down beforehand, or she thinks she'd have ended up in a puddle on the floor when his tongue teased hers.

He breaks away to remove his vest, then his trousers and socks, and climbs back in beside her. Her kisses are more sure now, more possessive, and she reaches for him, feels the sparse hair on his chest, the softness of his belly. At some point, she realizes they're on their sides, facing one another. There is an awkwardness she dislikes about having one arm trapped beneath her body, and she moves again, shifts so that she's sitting beside him, her hair falling around them both as she leans in for another kiss from her husband.

His hands are trembling as he reaches for her gown. She helps him, loosening it and managing to pull her up around and over her head. She's more nervous than she's ever been, yet she has no desire whatsoever to stop a thing. Feeling a need deep within herself, a burning desire to share everything of herself with him, she forges ahead and he follows suit, divesting them both of their last remaining articles of clothing.

The blanket rests in a tangle at the bottom of the bed, and husband and wife shed the last of their unease as they examine - with eyes, hands, and the most reverent of kisses - one another's bodies.

"You're _covered_ in freckles," he marvels.

"You don't say."

She's quickly silenced, however, as he proceeds to trace the ones on her shoulder with his lips and, in a slightly more daring move that elicits a new sound from his bride, the tip of his tongue.

Charles's hands roam the rest of her body, exploring and paying attention to each and every reaction she has, and Elsie is nearly overcome.

"Charles," she whispers after a long while. "Come here."

She pulls him over her as she makes room to cradle his body between her legs, watches him as he steadies himself, his physical presence nearly daunting. It's awkward, and it takes a moment for them to become accustomed to it.

He looks into her eyes, and she nods twice, encouragingly.

The pain, which she knew would come, is sharper than she'd expected, but it disappears much sooner than she thought it might, replaced by a feeling of _need_ like nothing she's ever experienced in her life. Her Mam had told her years back that having a husband who's attentive and loving, caring about _her_ pleasure as well as his own, would be a blessing, and now Elsie finally knows that it was God's honest truth.

Beyond their room, the tide comes in. Waves crash against the beach, but neither Charles nor Elsie hears them.

 **oOoOoOo**

They lie together as the sun comes up, both awake but both silent for a long, comfortable while. Charles is trailing his fingers gently over his wife's abdomen, relishing in all the details that she'd been so afraid of him seeing. There is a softness to her flesh, something she'd seen as detrimental but which he finds alluring. It softens _her,_ this wife of his who can be so bold and demanding and forceful when warranted - he's witnessed it in her as both the housekeeper and the nurse. She has moments of kindness, certainly, with other staff and even some of the family, but _this_ softness is only for him. She's surrendered everything to him, turned the hidden parts of herself over to his tender care just as he submitted his entire heart to hers. It's a depth of love that he's never known in all his life, and he'd wager that she'd say much the same. His guilt about burdening her with his infirmity has faded, superseded by her insistence that she wants him, all of him, just as he is. He _believes_ her, because he thinks she doesn't have it within her to lie to him about something so vitally important.

"You're loud when you're thinking, Charles," she murmurs, yawning widely and snuggling backwards, pressing her slender body up against his solid, protective one and smiling as his arm wraps tightly around her in reply.

"All good thoughts," he reassures her, placing a kiss to her temple.

"Such as?" she asks.

"Such as … You're very _soft,_ Mrs. Carson."

She turns her head slowly to look him in the eyes. "You really don't have much experience wooing a woman, do you, Charlie?" she asks, an eyebrow arched. "Did you just call my body _soft?_ "

"Soft," he repeats, nodding. "It's a lovely surprise, because no one else would ever guess that about you. But now _I_ get to see it every day."

She presses against him, feels him stir behind her. "And every night," she whispers, tipping her head to the right in order to kiss his arm.

"It's morning," he teases.

"I don't care," she replies, rolling over. She's not quite sure of herself or what she's doing, but she slides her leg over his and pulls him toward her, still in awe of the effect she has on him. "Do you think it'd work like this?" she asks, blushing.

"Oh, I'm sure we can manage," Charles says, his eyes dark with lust. "I'm willing to try, at least."

Turns out, it works just fine.

 **oOoOoOo**

It's on the fourth night of their honeymoon that it happens. Just enough time had passed that Charles thought he was free of it, that perhaps marriage and lovemaking and the sounds of the ocean had pooled together to be the remedy he needed.

He wakes with a jerk, sitting straight up in the bed, his heart racing. A quick glance to his side confirms his other fear, the present-day, very much alive one: he's likely woken his wife. He makes to leave the room before she comes into full consciousness.

"Charlie?" She's up in a flash, that part of her mind reserved for the _housekeeper_ whirring throughout the night in the event of anything unfortunate that might happen. "What is it?"

"It's nothing," he lies. His back is to her, his feet on the floor.

"Of course it's not _nothing_ ," she replies, her lips in a frown as she stares at his back. "You don't scream for 'nothing.'"

He turns to her, horrified. "Did I?" It's but a whisper, and she nods.

"You did. No words that I made out, just a short yell." She sees his gaze dart to the door and adds quickly, "I'm certain no one else would have heard, Charlie. But as I am right here …" She shrugs, and he turns away again, his head hanging.

"I thought maybe they were gone," he says after a minute. His voice is gravelly, and Elsie thinks he may be crying. She gets up onto her knees, holding onto his shoulder to support herself as she scoots up behind him, then drapes her arms around his body and rests her chin on his shoulder.

"I'd be surprised if they were," she reasons, and her voice is quiet and gentle, aware she's speaking into his ear but also wanting to soothe and not startle. "Do you wish to talk about them? Maybe it'll help."

But he shakes his head. "No. I don't think so."

She nods, then backs away, loosening her hold on him so that she's rubbing her hands loosely up and down his bare arms. She shivers, and remembers for the first time that she's completely unclothed. She laughs.

Charles quickly wipes at his eyes, then turns. "What is it?"

"I'm completely naked!" She laughs. "I mean, for the last few days, I realize that's not been unusual," she amends, blushing and looking down at his chest. "It just … Well, I forgot was all."

He reaches for her, but she backs away, planting herself on the pillows instead and beckoning for him to join her. Her heart soars when he cuddles in beside her, laying his head on her chest and allowing the sound of her heartbeat to calm him as she holds him in her arms.

His skin is warm beneath her cool fingertips, and she tilts her head down and kisses his head.

"I'm sorry I woke you," he murmurs, yawning.

"Don't be ridiculous," she replies quietly. "I'm your wife, Charles. For better or worse."

"This is definitely worse," he says.

"It is not," she argues. She's gentle, but firm. "I expected it. I, too, am surprised this is the first night it's happened, but I have no foolish expectations that it'll be the _last_ time."

She feels him nod, and then he shifts and places a tender kiss to the side of her breast.

"Soft," he says, "but strong. My lovely Elsie."

"Och, Charlie." The Scottish lilt is heavier with her fatigue. "I'm so glad I have you."

Ten minutes later, they're both fast asleep.

 _ **Come show me your kindness.**_

 _ **In your arms I know I'll find this.**_

 _ **Lying safe within your arms, I'm born again.**_

" _ **With You I'm Born Again," Billy Preston & Syreeta Wright**_


	14. A Holy Place Apart

**A/N: This is the next-to-last chapter of this fic. I'm sorry it took so long to get it out to you, but life has been quite full lately and both the ability and the time to write have been elusive.**

 **No song for this chapter, but the end contains a quotation that I set aside when I first started researching this story. It's from Vera Brittain, a young nurse who served during WWI who lost her fiance, her brother, and several close friends in the war. It really spoke to me and I wanted to share it; I'm sure several of you are familiar with it, but I'd never seen it before.**

 **In my mind, this story was always Charles's story in so many ways. However, like most of my stories, it has become just as much** _ **Elsie's**_ **story - and then, of course, a harmonizing at the end, akin to "The Butler and the Housekeeper" on the soundtrack for the show.**

 **Epilogue/final chapter to come in a week or two. Thanks again to all of you for indulging my wild AU.**

 **xxx,**

 **CSotA**

 **P.S. Apologies to the reviewer who doesn't think the "M" rating is warranted. I did have this chapter in mind when I assigned it, along with the PTSD references, war injury information, and general setting of the front lines. I'm not a particularly smutty writer - there are plenty of other people for that sort of thing - but I also don't wish to under-rate stories containing intimate scenes. x**

 _ **May, 1919**_

Charles rolls onto his side in their bed, his hand flush against his wife's rib cage, thumb brushing gently over her nipple. He feels a surge of desire course through his body as she gasps and shifts, enabling him to fully cup her breast in his hand. He spends several silent moments contemplating her as the warmth of her body flows into his palm, content with the comfortable intimacy they have found so easily with one another.

After a time, however, Elsie becomes impatient. She says nothing, _does_ nothing, but he can sense it nonetheless. These precious days away from their usual lives have served their purpose, he thinks, showing them both that a love they thought couldn't possibly root more deeply and blossom more brightly can, in fact, do both daily. It happens in the smallest brushes of a finger, or with a laugh or the simple kindness of buttoning the other's cuff - even in the pouring of a cup of tea.

 _A cup of tea …_

Lifting himself up, Charles leans over his wife, smiling down at her as his arms settle into a comfortable place on either side of her shoulders. He's pleasantly surprised as he feels her legs snake up behind his calves, and then he closes his eyes and inhales deeply, his senses full in every way of his lovely wife: the sight of her lying uncovered in the bed moments ago; the simple sounds of his skin brushing against hers mixed with the soft, approving noises emitted from her mouth; the scent of her, something he will never have a word for; the _feel_ of her - all warmth ( _and softness,_ he thinks, and he smiles) …

… and the _taste_ of her, something he only discovered the night before as they overcame nearly all of their inhibitions, aided no doubt by the healthy amount of brandy they'd enjoyed after their dinner. He feels his cheeks redden now with only the thought of it, but she notices, questions him with a flicker of her eyes, and he dips his head to whisper in her ear the words that he still cannot bring himself to say aloud - loving, longing words about that most personal of experiences.

"Later," she promises in a whisper of her own, reaching for him and pulling him even closer to her body. Elsie, herself, has no words to adequately describe the sensations that his words ignited in her. Their honeymoon has been full of so many things she hoped for, mixed in with these precious intimacies that she never would have dreamed existed. But she feels she must slow it all down now, moderate things in a way, in preparation for the long train ride back to a life to which neither of them are particularly anxious to return.

Their lovemaking is powerful, the result of a husband who's realized his desires will not break his wife, and of a wife who's learned a great deal about how to communicate and prioritize her own needs on an equal par to her those of her husband. She cries out as her body seizes and pulses around his, and she knows the powerful grasp she has on his back will likely leave marks.

He manages to keep himself balanced, leaning down to seek her lips with his. Feeling her hands come up, her fingers trailing through the damp hair at his temples, he smiles into their kiss.

"I love you," he says simply, moving off of her and lying flush against her body, his arm over her head in wait.

Elsie moves the sheet discreetly over his chest before resting her head on it and allowing him to pull her into his embrace. They're warm, and the cool sheet is a welcome, dry barrier between them.

"I love you, too," she murmurs. She cannot seem to stop _touching_ him, and it's one of the things she is most concerned with regarding their return to what they've been calling their 'normal lives.' "I'll need to stop reaching for you all the time, Charlie."

"What do you mean?"

"Reaching for your hand as we have tea," she explains patiently. "Or for the small of your back as I pass behind you. A kiss to your shoulder when you're seated before me. I'm not sure how I'll manage it."

He moves his head back and his eyes find hers. "Truly?"

She nods, sheepish. "Truly." Her lip disappears under her teeth as she searches for more words that do not come easily. "I feel … I feel as though I've been waiting for this for such a long time, starved for this type of …" Her voice dies.

"Love," he supplies simply, and she smiles.

"Love," she whispers. "Yes. But more than that. This type of _connection_ to another person, to want to be with you always. I can't bear the thought of the days you'll spend at the cottage whilst I'm at work."

He laughs, the sound rumbling in her ear as it rests flush on his chest. "You'll be _running_ to the Abbey before long, I'll wager. I don't think I'll be easy to live with."

"I've managed thus far," she tells him.

"Yes," he says gently, reaching to tap her lovingly on the tip of her nose. "But the honeymoon won't last forever. We've both seen too much of life to think otherwise."

She processes his words, and the old fear clenches her heart once again. It's not as powerful, but it isn't truly gone, either.

"You may go off me," she says, the levity in her voice belying the underlying worry.

"Never," he reassures instantly, squeezing her. "In fact, I worry you have that backwards."

"How's that?" She's truly astonished. They've spent the better part of these past few days in bed, after all.

"You'll be working a full day," he reasons. "And you'll hardly want to come home and … _entertain_ a husband every night. And that's fine - I won't expect it. But I worry you'll not miss it." There. He's said it, although he almost did not.

Elsie is quiet, thoughtful. He knows she's not nodded off and gives her time to mull it over as he glances out the window at the sun shining brightly in the morning sky.

"You're right." She nods gently against his breast. "I'm exhausted at the end of the day, _every_ day. And Lord knows it'll only get worse as the young ladies are married and there are babies about and the tone of the house shifts from entertaining suitors to entertaining more family. But that's not my _home,_ Charles. They aren't my family." She leans her head back in order to look up at him. _"You_ are. And I'll not forget that. Not even after the honeymoon is over."

She lays her head back down. "But I'll never go off you," she adds, her voice quieter. "You've healed things in me that I didn't even know were wounded. You must promise me that even if we're having a row, when we don't see eye to eye for days on end, that you'll always hold me at night and allow me to do the same for you. At the end of every day, I want us always to remember _this._ "

He squeezes her and drops a kiss to her head.

"I shall," he promises. "Do you know what I was thinking of earlier?"

"I believe you alluded to it as you whispered in my ear," she replies with a nervous chuckle.

"Not that," he chides gently. "I was thinking of tea."

"Of tea?"

Her arm is tingling, not happy with how she's lying on it. She sits up, turns and faces him, the sheet drawn up around her chest as she peers at his face. He reaches for her hand, and she grasps his fingers.

"We set forth on a path toward marriage over the sharing of tea," he observes. "It's how we began each day. I rather enjoyed that, and I'd like to continue it. Unless one of us is ill, or we're otherwise … detained," he explains, waggling his eyebrows and making her giggle, "I want to always share a cup of tea with you in the morning."

"Those will be early mornings," she says, still smiling.

"I don't care. It's important to me."

"Daft man," she whispers. "Of course we can. It'll be a lovely thing to look forward to as I drift off at night." She brushes her fingers over his chin. "You need to shave."

"I do."

"And I need a bath."

He sits up beside her. "I'll wash your hair if you like."

It's not at all what she expected him to say.

"I would, Mr. Carson. Very much."

And, just like that, everything blossoms anew.

 **oOoOoOo**

"The curtains really are lovely."

They're standing in the doorway of the bedroom, having recently unpacked. Elsie has set their things out to air, hanging them by the open window, and Charles has put together a small plate of sandwiches and fruit from the basket that awaited their return to the cottage.

"Let's go down," Elsie says, and she passes by him and leads the way back to the kitchen - and their food, which her growling stomach is very grateful for.

"It's a far cry from our honeymoon dinner," he says sheepishly, reflecting on the generous gift from Lord Grantham as he and Elsie sit at their own table. The restaurant chosen by his Lordship had served the Carsons the finest dinner they'd ever had, although in hindsight Charles feels he much prefers the quiet closeness they can enjoy at home.

His wife agrees. "This is much more _us,_ though," she soothes. "You do quite well in the kitchen, don't you?"

"Well," he says, sipping at the wine he chose for their evening, "sandwiches are easy. But yes, I often had to make do, living relatively alone. The cloisters had a cook, but I didn't always live in community." He smiles. "I can scramble eggs quite well, and I can manage a few simple stews. Can't bake sweets, though. A horrible irony, if you ask me."

"Well, they're about the only thing I _can_ cook," she admits. "So we'll sort it out as we go."

They talk more about the house over their meal, and when the empty plates are set on the table, they take up the wine and head for the settee in the parlour, where Charles draws his wife close to his side as they watch the setting sun.

"Elsie?"

"Hm?"

He takes a deep breath. "Have you ever thought about your life in retirement?"

"Every day," is her quick reply. "Why?"

"Well, have you ever given any thought as to the _when?_ "

She nods slowly. "Yes and no. Not until recently, because I had no choice."

His heart sinks a little. "Of course. I'm so sorry. That was careless and callous of me."

"It wasn't," she tells him. "It's alright. But since then … yes, I have." She smiles up at him. "Since this time five months ago, or thereabouts. Retirement means more when you've someone to share it with."

"Hm. Just so."

"Still ... I'd like to work for quite a while longer, contribute to our financial situation."

"We've discussed that -"

She doesn't allow him to finish. "I know we have, and I know we'd get by and that the cottage is no burden on our finances. But …" She sighs. "I've always depended upon myself, Charlie. It's difficult to shift that way of thinking."

"I think I understand. And I didn't mean anytime soon; I couldn't abandon my own post so soon after accepting it."

"It may very well take at least three years just for you to teach Mr. Barrow all he needs to know," she teases, eliciting a laugh from Charles.

"That it may," he agrees.

They rise and bring their glasses and plates to the sink.

"I've got these," Elsie says. "You go on up and have your bath. I know you've been dreaming of it since being crammed into that overbooked train."

She smiles as he places a hand on her hip and a kiss to her temple. "You are absolutely correct. See you in a little bit."

"Our first night together in our home," she muses.

The sound of his footsteps echoes through the house as he leaves her and heads upstairs. Elsie takes her time in the kitchen, her natural need for cleanliness overtaking her for a few quiet moments. She contemplates their conversation from earlier, mentally calculating how much she can put by over the next ten years. She'll be nearly sixty-five then, Charles about seventy. Young enough to travel, she thinks … and then she remembers his palsy and calculates once again, halving the figure to get her to sixty.

She wipes her hands and lays the towel over the faucet to dry. Double-checking the locks on the doors, she lights a candle to illuminate her way up the stairs, noticing that Charles did leave a light on for her but that it's dark enough now that it's not quite sufficient.

 _Getting used to a new home for him, too,_ she thinks.

He's still in the bath, and while she'd originally thought to peek in on him, she lets him be. They really do need to remember what it's like to spend _some_ time apart, and for all the love and need she has for him she recognizes a need to be alone with her own thoughts at times, as she is so used to being, and she knows it'll be the same for her husband. She turns the bed down and then undresses and brushes her hair out, and that's how Charles finds her when he emerges from the bathroom.

"Elsie?"

She's been staring off into space and shakes her head, bemused.

"With the fairies," she says. "Sorry."

"Don't be." He pulls his pajamas from the wardrobe as she ducks into the bathroom to brush her teeth and use the loo.

When she returns, Charles is waiting for her, a sweet smile on his face. "I'm positively exhausted," he admits, holding up a slightly trembling hand, "although this hasn't happened for a few days, for which I am grateful, indeed."

Elsie climbs in beside him and takes his afflicted hand between her own. "Ten years, perhaps five," she informs him. "The retirement question you asked of me earlier." She furrows her brow at that and adds, "Why _did_ you ask me that? We're both still quite young, you know."

He just raises an eyebrow at her.

"Well," she amends, "we're not _old._ "

He squeezes her hand and then slides down in the bed, resting his head on her lap and wrapping his arm loosely around her waist as he looks up at her.

"I never really had reason to dream about the future," he says, "and now I do."

"Oh."

The fabric of her nightgown is soft on his cheek.

"I wish I'd met your sister," he says. "I like to think we'd have gotten on."

"Oh, aye. You would have at that." She loops a lock of his still-damp hair over her finger, twisting and twirling it. "Becky was the sweetest soul on this earth. And she'd surely have seen the sweetness in _you._ "

He laughs. "I don't often exude sweetness."

"Well," Elsie replies, shifting down in their bed to face him, "you do for me."

Their foreheads touch, and Charles yawns widely.

"Sleep, love," Elsie tells him, moving slightly to kiss his chin. "Early morning ahead."

"And I'm behind on my rest," he teases.

"I'm not sorry about that."

He chuckles. "Neither am I."

Elsie listens to his breathing as it shifts, becoming deeper and steadier as he falls into a slumber. The trembling of his hand has subsided, and the room is full of love and a sense of peace that falls all around her.

 _Home,_ she thinks. _It's the feeling of finally being_ _ **home.**_

A smile comes to the housekeeper's lips as she thinks that regardless of how surprised - pleasantly surprised - she's been by the passion contained within the former priest, the sense of peace that she so often feels in his presence was wholly expected. It's a holiness of a different type, this love they share. Charles was right; she knows that now. The beginning of their love was fraught with death and despair, open wounds and frenetic attacks and salvaging what they could of both supplies and of men, day in and day out.

But the forging of their relationship was done with teacups, folding chairs, and precious quiet moments as the sun rose over a foreign horizon.

If she could go back, she'd not do it any other way, and she reckons her big bear of a man feels the same.

 _ **I found in you a holy place apart,**_

 _ **Sublime endurance,**_

 _ **God in man revealed,**_

 _ **Where mending broken bodies slowly healed**_

 _ **My broken heart.**_

 _ **"Epitaph On My Days in Hospital," Vera Brittain**_

 **I'd love a review if you're so inclined. Thanks so much for reading! x**


	15. Epilogue

**_June, 1921_**

The dirt on the path comes up in clouds as Elsie walks back to the cottage for her half-day off. It's warm, and it has not rained for nearly two weeks now - almost unheard of in their part of England. The dust settles on her shoes, frustrating her. She's always prided herself on her neat appearance, but now she needs to polish them before work tomorrow.

No matter. Today is an important afternoon, and she's quite excited. In fact, she's so distracted by her thoughts that the gentleman who's spotted her on the lane needs to call out to her twice before she hears him.

"Mrs. Carson! Elsie!"

Elsie turns, and then a broad smile appears on her face as she backtracks a bit in order to meet him face-to-face.

"Edmund!"

Edmund clasps her hands in his. "You must've been away with the fairies," he teases kindly, making her laugh.

"Indeed I was," she agrees, still smiling. "And you're early! Surely the train wasn't _ahead_ of schedule?"

"No, no, nothing like that. An acquaintance of mine was actually headed this way to visit your local parish, and he offered me a ride."

"That was quite generous."

"It was. Tell me, Elsie, before we get to the cottage … how is he?"

She purses her lips, choosing her words carefully. "He has good days and bad, I suppose. The tremor is improved with a new medication that he's been trying out, but the dreams still come regularly. Once a week, sometimes twice." She shoots him a sideways glance. "Doctor Clarkson - the Major, that is - says that they may never go away."

Edmund shakes his head sadly. "That's awful. For him _and_ for you, I'd imagine."

She nods minutely. "Yes," she whispers. "And he's guilt-ridden because of it, although the quality and amount of sleep _I_ receive won't matter so much in another few months."

A smile lights up her companion's face. "Ah, yes. An early retirement, Charles said?"

"Well, more of a trial run," she replies. "I'm still to make an appearance for the mid-afternoon hours three days per week, but merely in a supportive role. The family are spending more and more time in London lately, and they'll bring Miss Baxter along with them. Well, _Mrs._ Baxter, as she'll be known then."

"Changes abound," Edmund says as they arrive at the cottage.

"Yes," Elsie replies with a smile, "but good ones, Edmund. Good ones."

She reaches for the door handle, but Edmund lays his hand upon her wrist, stopping her.

" _You_ are the best change of them all," he tells her. "You're the best thing that has ever happened to him. I've never said it aloud to you, but I've thought it all along."

Elsie's eyes fill with tears. It's been tricky at times for her and Charles, navigating their way through marriage when each was so used to living alone in so many ways, and the words Edmund has uttered make her heart swell with gratitude. The magic of their honeymoon had been splendid, but neither of them had been foolish enough to think it would remain that way forever.

"Thank you for that," she whispers. With a firm nod, she opens the door and steps inside, Edmund close behind as she calls out for Charles.

"I'm in here!" His voice bellows from the kitchen. "He'll be here soon, I hope."

"He's here now!" Edmund calls out, and Charles pokes his head around the door, surprised, but beams at the sight of his friend. He quickly removes the apron he'd been wearing, tosses it over the hook on the door, and the two shake hands firmly.

"Early, then?" Charles asks, and Edmund fills him in as Elsie makes quick work of her hat and purse and leaves them to it, donning her own apron and moving into the kitchen to finish the luncheon preparations that her husband had started.

 **oOoOoOo**

"That is the biggest meal I've eaten in months!" Edmund exclaims, leaning back in his chair and resting his hands over his belly. "Someone's been giving _you_ lessons," he adds with a cheeky smirk in Charles's direction.

"Right you are," Charles agrees. "Mrs. Patmore has me observe in the kitchen at Downton once a week. I've learned quite a bit, indeed."

"And thankfully so," Elsie chimes in. "I'm often so late returning that the idea of putting together something to eat would set my teeth on edge." She gives a soft smile to Charles. "It's lovely to have the help, Charlie."

He returns her smile as Edmund looks on, slightly uncomfortable. The love between his friends is a palpable thing in the room, and he feels a bit intrusive.

Elsie notices. "I'll clean up," she says, "whilst you two head into the parlour and catch up some more over a brandy, hm?"

Charles, quite uncharacteristically in front of company, leans in to place a kiss to her temple, the wispy bits of hair tickling his nose. "Thank you, love." His voice is quiet and full of something she readily identifies.

"Get on with you," she murmurs back. "Don't go ignoring our guest, Charlie."

She watches as they head out, appreciating Charlie's handsome form and the ease he has with Edmund. It's like no other relationship Charles has, and both he and Elsie realize how valuable it is. Edmund has been a safe harbour in the storm of Charlie's mind at times, during dark days when he was struggling with the decision to retire and not be _needed._ Small connections at a couple of parishes were all it took to bring her husband out of the sort of fog in which he'd become immersed, and there was no way she could ever thank Edmund adequately for that. In fact, because of it, she found herself opening up her own heart up to the man, finding him a comforting presence for her harried mind as well as that of her husband.

As she washes off the plates and tries to pick up on snippets of the men's conversation from the other room, she smiles, knowing she wouldn't have it any other way.

 **oOoOoOo**

"He stayed later than I thought," Charles says, watching from the bedside as Elsie pulls pins from her hair.

"Oh, but it was good to see him," she says with feeling, turning to face her husband. "And it's wonderful to see _you_ with him, too."

"How so?"

He watches as she draws her lip beneath her teeth, contemplating.

"He both calms you and livens you up at the same time, if you know what I mean. It sounds contradictory, I know."

Charles smiles as she removes the last pin and runs her fingers through her hair, snagging them in a couple of small snarls.

"Come here," he says, patting the corner of the bed beside himself and holding out his hand.

Elsie chuckles and nods, then deposits the brush in his palm before taking her seat. It amuses her how fascinated he is by the simple action of brushing his wife's hair, but she cannot complain.

"You know, Charlie … Ohhh, that feels good … I have become rather accustomed to being pampered by you."

He continues brushing at an even pace but leans forward, placing his lips to the sensitive spot on her shoulder by the strap of her nightgown. He can feel her gooseflesh erupt as he touches the tip of his tongue to her skin and then withdraws, leaving her breathless as he finishes attending to her long tresses.

She turns quickly, surprising him, and takes the brush from his hand and deposits it on the dresser before turning back to him once again and stepping between his legs.

"Oh, Charlie, I do love you," she whispers, her eyes full of emotion as he wraps his arms loosely around her waist and pulls her in. She touches her lips to his forehead, then the tip of his nose, and finally captures his lips in a soft, long, deep kiss.

Her nightgown is quickly discarded, followed by his shorts, and they soon find themselves entangled in the bed sheets. No more words are spoken, their lips occupied by soft sighs and moans and kisses.

Much later, as Charles is gently gliding his fingertips over his wife's shoulder, his weak hand begins to tremble. It's not as bad as usual, and he smiles as he gazes out the window, the soft sound of gentle snores coming from where Elsie lies sleeping on his chest. His eyes scan the room and spot her shoes, and he thinks he'll rise a bit early to polish them for her before she leaves for work.

He sleeps peacefully, his dreams full of plans for full days spent by his wife's side as they move forward through retirement … together.

 _ **You brought out the best of me**_

 _ **The part of me I've never seen**_

 _ **You took my soul and wiped it clean**_

 _ **Our love was made for movie screens …**_

 _ **"All I Want," Kodaline**_

* * *

 **A/N: I know that the song doesn't really go, but this line is beautiful.**

 **Thanks to everyone who gave this fic a chance. I know it didn't appeal to some of my regulars, but I hope those of you who've read it have enjoyed it and found, at the heart of it, the special thing that just _is_ Chelsie, in any universe or time period. Best wishes to you all for a wonderful summer season ahead! I've got a few prompts in the wings and then some other projects on the back burner … we'll see.**

 ***Shameless plug - please give _heartsandminds4flora_ a look on tumblr and Facebook. Raising money for a great cause.***

 **All the best, loves. xxx**

 **CSotA**


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